THE 

TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH 


D'ANNUNZIO 


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LU,_H«I 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF  DEATH 


THE   CHILD   OF   PLEASURE 

(II  Piacere) 

THE   INTRUDER^ 
(L'Innocente) 

THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH 

(II  Trionfo  della  cTVIorte) 

THE   MAIDENS   OF   THE  ROCKS 
(Le  Vergini  delle  Rocce) 

THE   FLAME   OF   LIFE 
(II  Fuoco) 

Each  one  volume,   library  12mo,  cloth. 
Per  volume,  $1.50 


THE   PAGE  COMPANY 

53  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


(Tjjt  Bomantrt  of  tfjt 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH 

•V 

GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

TtANiLATtl*  »V 

ARTHUR   HOFNBLOW 

WITH   A   RKKWT  fOBTtATT  Of  THE  AtTTWNI 
Mft  t**  It  wr  Htmm  vrfMW  *****. — On* 


BOSTON 
THE  PAGE  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1896, 
Br   THE   PAGE   COMPANY 


Fifth  Impression,  May,  1907 
Sixth  Impression,  February,  1910 
Seventh   Impression,   November,   1911 
Eighth  Impression,  January,  1914 
Ninth  Impression,  April,  1917 


THE    COLONIAL   PRESS 
C,    H.    SIMOXDS    CO.,   BOSTON,   U.    S.   A. 


Ot.  £K 


CONTENTS. 

PAG  a 

I.  THE  PAST       '..*•' i 

II.  THE  PATERNAL  ROOF     .......  67 

III.  THE  HERMITAGE 153 

IV.  THE  NEW  LIFE 197 

V.  TEMPUS  DESTRUENDI 297 

VI.  THE  INVINCIBLE       ...»*...  361 


I. 

THE    PAST. 

CHAPTER   I. 

WHEN  she  perceived  a  group  of  men  leaning  against  the 
parapet  and  looking  down  into  the  street  below,  Hippolyte 
stopped  and  exclaimed  :  "  What  has  happened  ?  " 

With  a  slight  gesture,  betraying  fear,  she  placed  her  hand 
involuntarily  on  George's  arm  as  if  to  restrain  him. 

After  watching  the  men  a  moment  George  said  :  "  Some- 
one must  have  leaped  from  off  the  terrace."  Then  he 
added  :  "  Shall  we  turn  back  ?  " 

She  hesitated  a  few  moments,  wavering  between  curiosity 
and  fear,  and  then  replied  :  "  No.  Let's  see  what  it  is." 

They  advanced  along  the  parapet  as  far  as  the  end  of  the 
walk. 

Unconsciously,  Hippolyte  accelerated  her  pace  towards 
the  small  crowd  that  had  gathered. 

On  this  March  afternoon  the  Pincio  was  almost  deserted. 
Occasional  sounds  died  away  in  the  gray  and  heavy  atmos- 
phere. 

"That's  what  it  is,"  said  George.  "Someone  has 
killed  himself." 

They  stopped  close  to  the  crowd.  All  the  spectators  had 
their  gaze  intently  fixed  upon  the  pavement  below.  Most 
of  them  were  workmen  without  occupation.  Their  faces, 


2  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

each  different,  expressed  neither  compassion  nor  sorrow,  and 
the  immobility  of  the  gaze  imparted  a  sort  of  bestial  dul- 
ness  to  their  eyes. 

A  young  lad  came  up,  eager  to  see ;  but  scarcely  had  he 
ensconced  himself  in  a  position  satisfactory  to  himself  than 
he  was  hailed  by  one  of  the  bystanders,  in  an  indefinable 
tone  of  jubilation  and  pleasantry,  as  if  delighted  that  no 
new  arrival  could  enjoy  the  spectacle.  "  You're  too  late," 
he  cried;  "  they've  taken  him  away." 

"Whereto  ?" 

"  To  the  Santa  Maria  del  Popolo." 

"Dead?" 

"Yes,  dead." 

Another  individual,  emaciated  and  of  a  greenish  com- 
plexion, with  a  large  woollen  muffler  around  his  neck, 
leaned  half  over;  then,  removing  a  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
he  shouted  :  "  What's  that  on  the  ground  ?  " 

His  mouth  was  distorted  on  one  side,  seamed  as  if  by  a 
burn,  and  convulsed  as  if  by  an  endless  flow  of  bitter  saliva. 
His  voice  was  so  deep  that  it  sounded  as  if  it  emerged  from 
a  cavern. 

"  What's  that  on  the  ground  ?  "  he  repeated. 

Down  in  the  street  below,  a  wagon-driver  was  squatting 
close  to  the  foot  of  the  wall.  So  as  to  hear  his  answer  the 
better,  the  spectators  became  quiet  and  motionless.  On  the 
pavement  could  be  seen  a  little  blackish  mud. 

"  It's  blood,"  replied  the  wagon-driver  without  rising. 

And  with  the  point  of  a  stick  he  continued  his  search  in 
the  bloody  mire. 

"  Anything  else  ?  "  asked  the  man  with  the  pipe. 

The  wagon-driver  rose.  On  the  end  of  his  stick  he  held 
something  extended  that  could  not  be  identified  from 
above. 


THE    PAST.  3 

"Hair." 

"What  color?" 

"Blond." 

The  precipice  formed  by  the  high  walls  lent  a  strange 
resonance  to  the  voices. 

"  Let  us  go,  George  !  "  pleaded  Hippolyte. 

Disturbed  and  pale,  she  shook  her  lover's  arm,  as  he 
leaned  against  the  parapet  near  the  group,  fascinated  by 
the  horror  of  the  scene. 

They  silently  left  the  tragic  spot.  Both  were  preoccupied 
with  painful  thoughts  of  this  death,  and  sadness  was  visible 
on  their  features. 

"  Happy  are  the  dead ! "  exclaimed  George  at  last. 
"  They  have  no  more  doubts." 

"  That's  true,"  replied  his  companion. 

The  weary  tones  in  which  both  spoke  seemed  to  indicate 
boundless  discouragement. 

She  bent  her  head  and  added,  with  a  bitterness  mixed  with 
regret :  "  Poor  love  !  " 

"  What  love  ?  "  asked  George,  preoccupied. 

"Ours." 

"  Do  you  feel  that  it  is  growing  cold  ?  " 

"  In  me,  no,"  replied  Hippolyte  significantly. 

"  But  you  think  it  is  in  me  ?  "  persisted  George. 

An  ill-concealed  irritation  lent  sharpness  to  his  words. 
Fixing  his  gaze  on  her,  he  repeated  :  "  But  you  think  it  is 
in  me  ?  Don't  you  ?  " 

She  remained  silent,  her  head  drooping  still  lower. 

"  You  won't  answer  ?  You  know  you're  not  telling  the 
truth." 

There  was  a  pause.  Both  felt  an  unspeakable  desire  to 
read  the  other's  heart.  Then  he  continued  : 

"  That  is  how  the  agony  of  love  begins.     You  are  not  as 


4  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

yet  aware  of  it,  but  since  your  return  I  have  studied  you 
ceaselessly  and  I  daily  discover  in  you  a  new  symptom." 

"What  symptom  ?" 

"A  bad  symptom,  Hippolyte."  Then,  in  a  burst  of 
mental  agony,  he  exclaimed :  "  Oh,  how  horrible  it  is  to 
love  and  yet  not  lose  one's  keenness  of  perception  !  " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  gesture  of  anger,  and  her  face 
darkened.  Once  more,  as  on  many  previous  occasions,  hos- 
tility had  risen  between  the  two  lovers.  Each  felt  hurt  by 
the  injustice  of  suspicion,  and  secretly  rebelled  with  that 
restrained  anger  which  breaks  out,  from  time  to  time,  in 
brutal  and  irrevocable  words,  grave  accusations  and  absurd 
recriminations.  An  indescribable  fury  seized  them  to  tor- 
ture themselves,  to  rend  and  martyrize  their  hearts. 

Hippolyte  became  gloomy  and  silent.  Her  brows  were 
knit  in  a  frown  and  her  lips  were  tightly  pressed  together. 
George  regarded  her  with  an  irritating  smile. 

"  Yes,  that's  how  it  will  begin,"  he  repeated,  still  smil- 
ing his  disagreeable  smile  and  fixing  her  with  his  keen 
glance.  "  You  find  at  the  bottom  of  your  soul  an  inquietude, 
a  sort  of  vague  impatience  which  you  cannot  repress.  When 
near  me,  you  feel  an  instinctive  repugnance  arise  in  your 
breast  against  me — a  repugnance  which  you  cannot  subdue. 
And  then  you  become  taciturn,  you're  obliged  to  make  an 
enormous  effort  to  speak  to  me  at  all ;  you  misunderstand 
everything  I  say,  and,  perhaps  unconsciously,  you  speak 
crossly  even  about  the  most  trivial  things." 

She  did  not  interrupt  him  even  by  so  much  as  a  gesture. 
Hurt  by  this  indifference  on  her  part,  he  continued  to  re- 
proach her,  spurred  on  to  torment  his  companion  not  only 
by  his  sudden  fit  of  temper,  but  also  by  a  certain  disinter- 
ested taste  for  investigation  rendered  the  keener  and  the 
more  literary  by  culture.  He  always  tried  to  express  him 


THE    PAST.  5 

self  with  the  accuracy  and  demonstrative  precision  which 
the  works  of  the  analysts  had  taught  him  ;  but,  in  the  mono- 
logues, the  formulae  by  which  he  interpreted  his  inner 
inquiry  exaggerated  and  modified  the  mental  condition 
under  observation,  while,  in  the  dialogues,  the  preoccupa- 
tion caused  by  being  perspicacious  often  obscured  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  emotion  and  led  him  to  err  as  to  the  secret 
motives  which  he  claimed  to  discover  in  others.  His  brain, 
encumbered  by  a  mass  of  psychological  observations,  per- 
sonal or  gathered  from  books,  ended  by  confounding  and 
confusing  everything  both  as  regarded  himself  and  others. 

He  continued : 

"  Mind  you,  I  make  no  reproach.  I  know  it  is  not  your 
fault.  Every  human  soul  has  but  a  fixed  quantity  of  sensi- 
tiveness for  passion.  It  is  inevitable  that  this  quantity  is 
exhausted  in  time  and  that  no  power  can  prevent  the  cessa- 
tion of  passion.  Now,  you  have  already  loved  me  fora  long 
time — almost  two  years  !  It  will  be  the  second  anniversary 
of  our  love  on  the  second  of  April.  Had  you  thought  of 
ft?" 

She  nodded.  He  repeated,  as  if  to  himself:  "Two 
years  ! ' ' 

They  approached  a  bench  and  sat  down.  Hippolyte  sank 
down  with  a  weary  sigh,  as  if  overcome  by  an  enervating 
weakness.  The  heavy  black  coach  of  a  prelate  passed  by 
on  the  road  below,  the  wheels  rattling  on  the  uneven  cobble- 
stones. The  faint  sound  of  a  bugle  came  from  the  Flamin- 
ian  Road,  and  then  once  more  silence  regained  possession  of 
the  surrounding  groves.  A  few  drops  of  rain  fell. 

"  Our  second  anniversary  will  be  dismal,"  he  went  on, 
without  pity  for  his  moody  companion.  "  But  we  must 
celebrate  it  all  the  same.  I  have  a  fondness  for  bitter 
fruits." 


6  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

Hippolyte  revealed  her  sorrow  by  a  painful  smile,  and 
with  unexpected  gentleness  said  :  "  Why  all  these  unkind 
words  ? ' ' 

She  looked  long  and  searchingly  into  George's  eyes.  A 
second  time  an  inexpressible  desire  to  read  each  other's 
hearts  seized  them.  She  knew  well  the  horrible  malady 
from  which  her  lover  suffered;  she  knew  well  the  obscure 
cause  of  all  his  acrimony.  To  induce  him  to  talk  so  he 
might  unburden  his  heart,  she  added  : 

"  What  ails  you  ?" 

The  tenderness  of  her  tone,  for  which  he  was  unprepared, 
threw  him  into  some  confusion.  At  this  accent  he  knew 
that  she  understood  him  and  pitied  him ;  and  he  felt  a  great 
pity  for  himself  swell  in  his  bosom.  A  profound  emotion 
stirred  his  whole  being. 

"What  ails  you?"  repeated  Hippolyte,  touching  his 
hand  as  though  to  sensually  augment  the  power  of  her  ten- 
derness. 

"  What  ails  me  ?  "  he  echoed.     "  I  love  !  " 

The  aggressiveness  had  died  away.  In  thus  expressing  his 
incurable  weakness,  he  commiserated  with  himself  on  his 
own  malady.  The  vague  rancor  which  had  ravaged  his  soul 
appeared  to  be  dissipated.  He  recognized  the  injustice  of 
all  resentment  against  this  woman  because  he  recognized  a 
superior  order  of  fatal  necessities.  No,  no  human  creature 
caused  his  misery.  It  arose  from  the  very  essence  of  life. 
He  had  to  complain,  not  of  the  woman  he  loved,  but  of  Love 
itself.  Love,  towards  which  his  whole  being  reached  out 
with  invincible  impetuosity,  was,  he  thought,  the  greatest 
of  human  sorrows.  And,  until  death  possibly,  he  was  con- 
demned to  this  supreme  misfortune. 

As  he  remained  silent  and  thoughtful,  Hippolyte  asked  : 

"  Then  do  you  think,  George,  that  I  don't  love  you  ?  " 


THE    PAST. 


"  I  believe  that  you  love  me  now,"  he  answered.  "  But 
can  you  prove  to  me  that  to-morrow,  or  in  a  month,  or  in  a 
year,  you  will  still  be  happy  to  be  mine  ?  Can  you  prove 
to  me  that  to-day,  even  at  this  very  moment,  you  are  wholly 
mine  ?  How  much  of  you  do  I  possess  ?  ' ' 

"  Everything,"  murmured  Hippolyte. 

"  No,"  he  went  on,  "  nothing,  or  almost  nothing.  And 
I  do  not  possess  what  I  should  like  to  possess.  You  are  a 
perfect  stranger  to  me.  Like  every  other  human  being,  you 

\conceal  within  yourself  a  world  which  is  impenetrable  to  me 
and  to  which  no  depth  of  passion  can  give  me  access.  Of 
your  sensations,  your  sentiments,  your  thoughts,  I  know  but 
a  small  part.  Speech  is  at  best  an  imperfect  sign.  The  soul 
is  incommunicable.  You  cannot  show  me  your  soul.  Even 
in  our  most  ecstatic  moments  we  are  two,  always  two — sepa- 
rate, strangers,  lonely  at  heart.  I  kiss  your  brow,  and 
beneath  that  brow  there  exists  possibly  a  thought  that  is  not 
of  me.  I  speak  to  you  and  what  I  say  perhaps  awakens  in 
you  memories  of  other  days,  and  not  of  my  love.  A  man 
passes,  looks  at  you,  and  in  your  heart  this  slight  fact  gives 
rise  to  an  emotion  which  I  am  unable  to  detect.  And  I 
never  know  what  reflections  of  your  past  life  may  flash  upon 
you  even  when  you  show  most  affection  for  me.  Ah,  I  am 
so  afraid  of  that  past  life  of  yours  !  I  am  by  your  side ;  I 
feel  a  delicious  happiness  invade  my  being,  a  happiness 
which  at  certain  moments  results  from  your  presence  alone. 
I  caress  you,  I  speak  to  you,  I  listen  to  you,  I  abandon  my- 
self entirely.  All  at  once,  a  thought  chills  me.  If,  without 
being  aware  of  it,  I  had  evoked  in  your  memory  the  phan- 
tom of  a  former  sensation,  melancholy  relic  of  by-gone 
days  ?  Never  can  I  describe  my  anguish.  This  ardor, 
which  induces  in  me  the  illusory  feeling  of  I  know  not 
what  communion  between  you  and  me,  dies  out  all  at  once. 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

You  escape  me,  you  steal  away,  you  become  inaccessible. 
And  I  remain  alone  in  frightful  solitude.  Ten,  twenty 
months  of  intimacy,  are  all  as  nothing.  You  seem  to  me  as 
much  a  stranger  as  before  your  love  for  me  began.  And  I 
— I  cease  to  caress  you,  I  no  longer  speak,  I  retire  within 
myself,  I  avoid  all  external  manifestation,  I  dread  that  the 
slightest  shock  should  raise  from  the  bottom  of  your  soul 
the  obscure  dregs  deposited  there  by  irrevocable  life.  And 
then  there  fall  on  us  those  long  silences  full  of  anguish,  in 
which  the  energies  of  the  heart  are  uselessly  and  miserably 
consumed.  I  ask  you :  '  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  '  And 
you  reply :  '  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ? '  I  am  ignorant  of 
your  thoughts  and  you  are  ignorant  of  mine.  Every  mo- 
ment the  distance  between  us  widens,  until  finally  it  becomes 
abysmal . ' ' 

"But,"  objected  Hippolyte,  "I  experience  no  such 
feelings.  I  give  you  more  of  myself  than  ever.  I  think 
my  love  is  stronger." 

This  affirmation  of  superiority  wounded  anew  the  invalid. 

"  You  think  too  much,"  she  continued.  "  You  pay  too 
much  attention  to  your  thoughts.  Possibly  I  have  less  at- 
traction for  you  than  your  thoughts,  because  your  thoughts 
are  always  different,  always  new,  while  now  I  have  nothing 
that  is  new  to  offer  you.  In  the  beginning  of  our  love  you 
were  less  reflective  and  mo  re  spontaneous.  You  had  not  yet 
developed  a  taste  for  the  bitter  things  in  life ;  you  were 
more  lavish  with  your  kisses  than  with  your  words.  If,  as 
you  say,  speech  is  an  imperfect  sign,  it  is  not  well  to  abuse 
it.  And  you  do  abuse  it  and  in  an  almost  always  cruel 
manner. ' ' 

Then,  after  an  interval  of  silence,  prompted  to  speak  by 
something  he  said,  she  yielded  to  the  temptation  to  express 
herself : 


THE    PAST.  9 

"  Only  cadavers  are  dissected." 

But  scarcely  had  she  spoken  than  she  regretted  it.  Her 
remark  struck  her  as  being  vulgar,  unfeminine,  and  acri- 
monious. She  was  sorry  she  had  not  preserved  that  gentle 
and  indulgent  tone  which  had  moved  her  lover  so  strongly 
a  few  moments  before.  Once  more  she  had  failed  in  her 
resolution  to  be  to  him  the  most  patient  and  tender  of 
nurses. 

"  You  see,"  she  said  repentantly,  "  it  is  you  who  spoil 
me." 

He  gave  a  faint  smile.  Both  understood  that  in  this 
quarrel  their  love  only  had  been  wounded. 

The  prelate's  carriage  repassed,  the  two  black,  long- 
tailed  horses  going  at  a  trot.  In  the  atmosphere  which  the 
haze  of  twilight  rendered  more  and  more  livid,  the  trees 
assumed  the  appearance  of  spectres.  Leaden-looking  clouds 
darkened  the  height  of  the  Palatine  and  the  Vatican.  A  ray 
of  light,  yellow  as  sulphur,  straight  as  a  sword,  lightly 
touched  Mount  Mario  behind  the  pointed  tops  of  the 
cypress-trees. 

"  Does  she  still  love  me?"  George  thought  to  himself. 
"  Why  is  she  so  easily  irritated  ?  It  may  be  that  she  feels 
that  I  speak  the  truth,  or,  at  least,  what  will  soon  be  the 
truth.  Irritation  is  a  symptom.  But  am  I  not  conscious  of 
a  constant  dull  irritation  in  myself  also  ?  I  know  well 
the  cause  of  my  irritation.  I  am  jealous.  Of  what  ?  Of 
everything.  Of  the  objects  reflected  in  her  eyes." 

He  looked  at  her.  "  She  is  very  beautiful  to-day.  She 
is  pale.  It  would  please  me  to  see  her  always  depressed, 
always  ill.  When  her  color  returns  it  seems  to  me  as  if  it 
were  no  longer  she.  When  she  laughs  I  cannot  repress  a 
vague  hostility,  almost  anger,  at  her  laugh.  Not  always, 
though." 


10  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

His  thoughts  died  away  in  the  shade  of  the  twilight.  He 
noticed  suddenly  how  much  the  appearance  of  the  evening 
reminded  him  of  his  beloved.  From  beneath  the  pallor  of 
her  dark  face  a  light,  violet-colored  effusion  shone  through ; 
and  the  narrow  ribbon,  of  an  exquisite  shade  of  yellow, 
which  she  wore  about  her  throat  disclosed  the  brown  marks 
of  two  beauty  spots. 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  he  mused.  "  The  expression  of 
her  face  is  nearly  always  profound,  expressive,  passionate. 
Therein  rests  the  secret  of  her  charm.  Her  beauty  never 
tires  me ;  it  constantly  suggests  new  dreams.  What  are  the 
elements  of  this  beauty  ?  I  cannot  say.  Materially,  she  is 
not  beautiful.  Sometimes,  when  I  look  at  her,  I  am  pain- 
fully surprised  by  a  disillusion.  That  is  because  I  then  see 
only  her  physical  characteristics ;  her  face  is  not  transfig- 
ured, illumined  by  the  power  of  spiritual  expression.  She 
possesses,  however,  three  divine  elements  of  beauty :  the 
brow,  the  eyes,  and  the  mouth.  Yes,  divine." 

Her  laugh  came  to  his  mind. 

"  What  did  she  tell  me  yesterday  ?  I  have  forgotten 
what  it  was,  some  humorous  incident  that  had  happened  at 
Milan  during  her  visit  to  her  sister's.  '  How  we  laughed!  ' 
So  then,  even  when  away  from  me,  she  can  laugh,  be  happy  ! 
Yet  all  her  letters,  which  I  have  treasured,  are  full  of  sor- 
row, of  tears,  of  hopeless  regrets." 

He  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  wound,  and  then  a  great  rest- 
lessness came  upon  him,  as  if  he  were  cognisant  of  a  serious 
and  irreparable  fact  not  entirely  clear  to  him.  The  ordinary 
phenomena  of  sentimental  exaggeration  manifested  them- 
selves in  him  by  means  of  associated  images.  This  simple 
laugh  was  transformed  in  his  imagination  into  an  incessant 
hilarity,  ever-present,  daily,  hourly,  during  the  entire  period 
of  her  absence.  Hippolyte  had  led  a  gay,  commonplace 


THE    PAST.  II 

existence,  with  people  unknown  to  him,  among  the  com- 
panions of  her  brother-in-law,  in  a  circle  of  stupid  admirers. 
Her  sad  letters  were  only  lies.  He  remembered  a  passage 
in  one  letter  :  "  Life  here  is  insupportable  ;  friends  weary  us 
constantly  and  do  not  leave  us  a  single  peacefitl  hour.  You 
know  how  cordial  the  Milanese  are."  In  his  imagination 
arose  a  vision  of  Hippolyte  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  com- 
mon clerks,  advocates,  and  tradesmen.  She  smiled  on  them 
all,  giving  her  hand  to  all,  listening  to  witless  conversations, 
making  stupid  answers,  sinking  herself  to  the  same  ordinary 
level. 

And  then  there  fell  upon  his  heart  all  the  weight  of  the 
misery  he  had  endured  for  the  past  two  years  at  the  thought 
of  the  existence  his  mistress  led  and  the  unknown  world  in 
which  she  passed  the  time  not  spent  with  him. 

"  What  does  she  do  ?  Whom  does  she  see  ?  To  whom 
does  she  speak  ?  What  is  her  behavior  towards  people  who 
visit  her,  in  whose  life  she  is  a  factor  ?  "  Ever- recurring, 
unanswerable  questions  ! 

He  thought,  with  anguish  : 

,  "  Each  one  of  these  persons  takes  something  from  her, 
and  consequently  takes  something  from  me.  I  shall  never 
know  what  influence  these  people  have  over  her,  the  emo- 
tions and  thoughts  they  arouse  in  her.  Hippolyte  "s  beauty 
is  full  of  seductive  power,  the  kind  of  beauty  which  tor- 
ments men  and  arouses  in  them  the  passion  of  desire. 
Among  that  odious  crowd,  she  must  have  been  frequently 
desired.  A  man's  desire  is  discernible  in  his  look  and  the 
look  is  free,  and  the  woman  is  without  defence  against  the 
look  of  the  man  who  desires  her.  What  can  be  the  impres- 
sion of  a  woman  who  perceives  that  she  is  desired  ?  She 
certainly  cannot  remain  impassive.  It  must  produce  in  her 
a  feeling  of  disquietude,  certainly  some  kind  of  emotion,  if 


12  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

only  one  of  repugnance  and  disgust.  And  thus  the  first 
man  who  comes  along  has  the  power  to  disturb  the  woman 
who  loves  'me  !  In  what,  then,  consists  my  possession  of 
her?" 

He  suffered  keenly  because  the  physical  pictures  bore  out 
his  mental  reasoning. 

"I  love  Hippolyte;  I  love  her  with  a  passion  which  I 
should  judge  to  be  everlasting,  did  I  not  know  that  all  hu- 
man passion  must  cease  at  some  time.  I  love  her,  and  I  can- 
not imagine  keener  voluptuous  delights  than  those  she  gives 
me.  More  than  once,  however,  at  the  sight  of  some  passing 
woman,  I  have  been  seized  with  a  sudden  desire;  more 
than  once  has  the  flash  of  a  pair  of  feminine  eyes  thrown  me 
into  a  melancholy  train  of  thought ;  more  than  once  I  have 
dreamed  of  meeting  some  woman — a  woman  perceived  in  a 
drawing-room,  or  the  mistress  of  a  friend.  What  can  be 
her  way  of  loving  ?  Of  what  does  its  voluptuous  secret  con- 
sist? And  for  some  time  this  woman  has  haunted  my  mind, 
not,  indeed,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other  thoughts,  but  at 
intervals  and  persistently.  Such  phantasies  suddenly  pre- 
sent themselves  to  my  imagination  even  when  I  hold  Hip- 
polyte in  my  arms.  Why  should  she  not  have  been  seized 
by  desire  upon  sight  of  some  passing  man  ?  Had  I  the 
gift  of  reading  her  soul  and  saw  it  traversed  by  such  a 
desire,  if  but  for  a  moment,  I  should,  without  the  slightest 
doubt,  consider  my  mistress  sullied  by  an  indelible  stain  and 
it  seems  to  me  that  I  should  die  of  grief.  This  material 
proof  I  can  never  have,  because  the  soul  of  my  mistress  is 
invisible  and  impalpable;  this,  however,  does  not  prevent 
the  soul  from  being  as  much  or  even  more  exposed  to  pro- 
fanation than  the  body  may  be.  But  the  analogy  enlight- 
ens me ;  the  possibility  is  certain.  Perhaps  at  this  very 
moment  my  mistress  is  cognisant  of  a  recent  stain  upon  her 


THE    PAST.  13 

conscience  and  sees  this  stain  expand  beneath  her  contem- 
plation." 

Stunned  by  his  pain,  he  started  violently. 

"  What  ails  you — of  what  are  you  thinking?  "  asked  Hip- 
polyte  gently. 

"Of  you,"  he  replied. 

"Good  or  bad?" 

"Bad." 

She  gave  a  sigh  and  then  said  :  "  Shall  we  go  ?  " 

"Yes — let  us  go." 

They  rose  and  regained  the  road  by  which  they  had -come. 
Slowly  and  with  tearful  accents  Hippolyte  murmured : 
"  What  a  sad  evening,  O  my  love  !  " 

And  she  stopped  as  if  to  recall  and  live  over  again  the 
sorrows  scattered  through  the  day  that  was  about  to  close. 
Around  them,  now,  the  Pincio  was  deserted,  full  of  silence, 
full  of  violet  shadows  in  which  the  busts  on  their  pedestals 
took  on  the  appearance  of  funereal  monuments.  Below,  the 
city  was  covered  with  ashes.  A  few  drops  of  rain  were  falling. 

"Where  shall  we  go  to-night?  What  are  you  going  to 
do  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  replied  dejectedly:  "What  I  shall  do?  I  do  not 
know. ' ' 

They  suffered,  both  of  them,  as  they  stood  side  by  side ; 
and  they  thought  with  terror  of  a  greater  agony  which  awaited 
them,  well  known  and  far  more  cruel — the  horrible  torture 
with  which  their  nocturnal  imaginations  would  rend  their 
defenceless  souls. 

"  If  you  like,  I  will  remain  with  you  to-night,"  said 
Hippolyte  timidly. 

Devoured  by  a  secret  rancor  and  spurred  on  by  a  furious 
desire  to  be  spiteful  and  resentful,  George  replied  :  "  No." 

But  his  heart  protested.     "  Stay  far  from  her  to-night  ? 


14  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

You  cannot.  No,  you  cannot."  And  in  spite  of  his  blind, 
hostile  impulses,  the  conviction  of  this  impossibility,  the 
sure  knowledge  of  this  absolute  impossibility,  gave  him  a 
kind  of  internal  thrill,  a  strange  thrill  of  exalted  pride  at 
being  controlled  by  such  a  great  passion.  He  repeated  to 
himself:  "  /  could  not  stay  away  from  her  to-night;  no,  I 
could  not."  And  he  felt  the  indefinable  sensation  of  being 
dominated  by  an  unknown  power.  A  tragic  breath  passed 
over  his  being.  "  George  !  "  cried  Hippolyte,  frightened 
and  clinging  to  his  arm. 

He  started.  He  recognized  the  spot  where  they  had 
stopped  to  look  at  the  bloody  stain  left  by  the  suicide. 
"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  little,"  she  replied,  still  holding  his  arm. 

He  disengaged  himself  from  this  restraint  and,  approach- 
ing the  parapet,  leaned  over.  Darkness  had  already  en- 
shrouded the  street  below;  but  he  believed  he  could  still 
distinguish  the  blackish  spot  on  the  cobblestones,  because 
he  still  had  the  recent  picture  before  his  mind.  The  deep- 
ening twilight  seemed  to  suggest  and  create  a  phantom 
corpse,  the  indefinite  and  bloody  form  of  a  blond  young 
man.  "  Who  was  this  man  ?  Why  did  he  kill  himself  ?  " 
In  this  phantom  he  seemed  to  recognize  his  own  form. 
Rapid,  incoherent  thoughts  coursed  through  his  brain.  He 
saw,  as  by  a  lightning  flash,  his  poor  uncle  Demetrius,  his 
father's  youngest  brother,  also  a  suicide — a  face  covered  by 
a  black  pall  resting  on  a  white  pillow,  a  slender,  pale,  yet 
virile  hand,  and  a  small  silver  vessel  containing  holy  water 
suspended  from  the  wall  by  three  small  chains  which,  every 
now  and  then,  rattled  as  they  were  swung  by  the  breeze. 
"  Suppose  I  threw  myself  over  ?  A  leap  forward,  a  rapid 
fall  !  Does  one  lose  consciousness  when  falling  through 
space  ?  "  He  imagined  the  shock  of  the  body  against  the 


THE   PAST.  IS 

stones,  and  he  shuddered.  Then  he  felt  in  all  his  limbs  a 
violent,  agonizing  repulsion,  mingled  with  a  feeling  of 
strange  lassitude.  In  his  imagination  he  conjured  up  the 
delights  of  the  coming  night :  to  be  lulled  gradually  into  a 
state  of  delicious  languor;  to  awake  with  a  superabundance 
of  tenderness  mysteriously  accumulated  during  one's  sleep. 
.  .  Fancies  and  ideas  followed  one  another  with 
extraordinary  rapidity. 

When  he  turned  round,  his  eyes  met  those  of  Hippolyte. 
Her  eyes  were  widely  dilated  and  fixed  upon  him,  and  he 
oelieved  he  could  read  in  their  depths  things  which  in- 
creased his  pain.  He  passed  his  arm  beneath  that  of  his 
mistress  with  an  affectionate  gesture  customary  with  him. 
And  she  pressed  his  arm  firmly  against  her  heart.  Both 
felt  a  sudden  desire  to  embrace,  to  dissolve  one  into  the 
other,  distractedly. 

"  All  out  !     All  out  !  " 

The  cry  of  the  keepers  resounded  among  the  groves,  dis- 
turbing the  silence. 

"All  out!" 

After  the  cry,  the  silence  seemed  heavier  and  more  dis- 
mal than  ever,  and  these  few  words,  vociferated  by  men  they 
could  not  see,  gave  the  two  lovers  an  insupportable  shock. 
To  show  that  they  had  heard  and  were  preparing  to  leave, 
they  hastened  their  step.  But  here  and  there,  in  the 
deserted  paths,  the  voices  obstinately  repeated  : 

"All  out!" 

"  Curse  their  cries  !  "  exclaimed  Hippolyte,  with  a  ges- 
ture of  impatience  and  exasperation,  and  increasing  the 
rapidity  of  her  pace. 

The  clock  of  the  Trinita-de-Monti  sounded  the  Angelus. 
Rome  appeared,  similar  to  an  immense,  grayish,  formless 
cloud  touching  the  earth.  Already,  in  the  neighboring 


l6  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

houses,  several  windows  were  lit  up,  their  lights  enlarged 
by  the  fog.  A  few  drops  of  rain  were  falling. 

"  You'll  come  to  me  to-night,  won't  you?  "  asked  George. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will  come." 

"Early?" 

"  About  eleven." 

"  I  should  die  if  you  did  not  come." 

"  I  will  come." 

They  gazed  in  each  other's  eyes,  exchanging  an  intoxi- 
cating promise. 

Overcome  by  his  emotion,  George  murmured :  "  Am  I 
forgiven  ?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  again,  and  their  gaze  was 
charged  with  caresses. 

"  Adored  one  !  "  he  murmured. 

"Addio!"  she  rejoined  softly.  "Think  of  me  until 
eleven." 

"Addio!" 

They  separated  at  the  foot  of  the  Via  Gregoriana.  She 
went  down  the  Via  Capo-le-Case.  As  long  as  he  could 
see  her  going  along  the  wet  pavement,  lit  up  by  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  shop  windows,  his  gaze  followed  her. 

"  Thus  it  is,"  he  thought.  "  She  leaves  me  ;  sle  enters 
a  house  of  which  I  know  nothing ;  she  reenters  upon  her 
commonplace  life,  despoiled  of  all  the  ideality  in  which  I 
have  clothed  her ;  she  becomes  another  woman  entirely.  I 
no  longer  know  her.  The  gross  necessities  of  life  occupy 
her,  absorb  her,  and  degrade  her.  .  .  ." 

A  perfume  of  violets  was  carried  to  him  from  a  florist's 
close  by,  and  his  heart  swelled  with  confused  aspirations. 

"  Ah  !  why  is  it  not  permitted  us  to  conform  our  existence 
according  to  our  dreams,  and  to  live  forever  in  ourselves 
alone?" 


CHAPTER  II. 

AT  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  George  was  still  buried 
in  the  profound  and  refreshing  slumber  which,  in  the 
young,  follows  a  night  of  voluptuousness,  when  his  servant 
entered  to  awaken  him. 

Turning  in  his  bed,  he  cried  ill-humoredly : 

"  I  am  at  home  to  no  one.     Let  me  be." 

But  from  the  adjoining  room  he  heard  the  importunate 
visitor's  voice  addressing  him  in  beseeching  accents  : 

"  Excuse  me,  George;  I  must  speak  to  you." 

George  recognized  the  voice  of  Alphonso  Exili,  and  his 
annoyance  was  only  the  greater. 

This  Exili  was  a  college  chum,  a  man  of  mediocre  intelli- 
gence, who,  ruined  by  gambling  and  debauch,  had  become 
a  parasite  and  adventurer. 

He  still  appeared  a  handsome  young  man,  in  spite  of  his 
face  devastated  by  vice ;  yet  in  his  person  and  manners 
there  was  that  indefinable  cunning  and  ignobleness  notice- 
able in  persons  reduced  to  living  by  their  wits. 

He  entered,  waited  until  the  servant  had  retired,  and 
assumed  a  distressed  air.  Then,  swallowing  half  his  words, 
he  said :  "  Forgive  me,  George,  if  I  have  recourse  once 
more  to  your  kindness.  I  must  pay  a  card  debt.  I  want 
you  to  help  me.  It's  a  small  sum.  Only  three  hundred 
lira.  Forgive  me." 

"  What  ?  You  pay  your  card  debts  now  ?  "  said  George. 
"I'm  surprised." 

3 


l8  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

He  threw  this  insult  at  him  with  the  most  perfect  sans- 
gtne.  Not  knowing  how  to  break  off  all  connection  with 
the  parasite,  he  treated  him  with  contempt,  just  as  one 
would  use  a  stick  to  ward  off  a  dirty  animal. 

Exili  smiled. 

"  Come,  don't  be  unkind,"  he  pleaded,  in  supplicating 
tones,  like  a  woman's.  "  You'll  give  me  the  three  hun- 
dred lira,  won't  you?  I  will  pay  you  back  to-morrow,  on 
my  word  of  honor  ! ' ' 

George  burst  into  laughter.  He  pulled  the  bell  to  sum- 
mon the  servant.  The  servant  entered.  "  Get  my  bunch 
of  keys  out  of  those  clothes  there,  on  the  sofa."  The  ser- 
vant found  the  keys.  "  Open  the  second  drawer.  Give 
me  the  large  card-case."  The  servant  passed  him  the  card- 
case.  "  Very  well,  you  may  go." 

"  Couldn't  you  let  me  have  four  hundred  lira?  "  asked 
Exili,  with  a  half-timid,  half-convulsive  smile  when  the  ser- 
vant had  left  the  room. 

"  No,  there's  three  hundred.    It's  the  last  time.   Now  go. ' ' 

Instead  of  handing  him  the  bills,  George  laid  them  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed.  Exili  smiled,  took  them,  and  placed 
them  in  his  pocket ;  then,  in  an  ambiguous  tone,  in  which 
irony  was  mixed  with  adulation,  he  said:  "You  have  a 
noble  heart." 

His  gaze  wandered  around  the  chamber,  and  he  added : 
"  You  have  a  delicious  bedroom." 

He  seated  himself  on  the  sofa,  poured  out  a  small  glass 
of  liqueur,  and  refilled  his  cigar-case. 

"  Who  is  your  present  mistress?  "  he  went  on.  "  What's 
her  name  ?  I  believe  it's  no  longer  the  one  you  had  last 
year. ' ' 

"  Go  away,  Exili.     I  want  to  sleep." 

"  What  a  splendid  creature !     She  has   the  handsomest 


THE    PAST.  19 

eyes  in  Rome.  She's  away,  I  suppose.  I  have  not  met 
her  for  several  days.  She  must  be  out  of  town.  She  has  a 
sister  in  Milan,  I  think." 

He  refilled  \\\$ petit  verre  and  swallowed  its  contents  at  a 
single  gulp.  Possibly  he  gossiped  only  in  order  to  gain 
time  enough  to  empty  the  bottle. 

"  She's  separated  from  her  husband,  isn't  she  ?  "  he  con- 
tinued. "  I  imagine  that  her  finances  must  be  at  a  very 
low  ebb,  and  yet  she  is  always  most  elegantly  dressed. 
About  two  months  ago  I  met  her  in  the  Via  del  Babuino. 
You  know  your  probable  successor.  But  no,  you  can't  know 
him.  It's  Monti,  the  mercante  di  campagna,  a  great  big 
fellow,  with  dirty  blond  hair.  That  very  day  I  saw  her  he 
was  close  at  her  heels  in  the  Via  del  Babuino.  You  know 
one  can  see  at  a  glance  when  a  man  is  following  a  woman. 
Monti  has  money,  too." 

He  uttered  these  last  words  in  a  curious  tone ;  an  odious 
tone  of  envy  and  cupidity.  Then  he  drank  for  the  third 
time,  noiselessly. 

"  Are  you  asleep,  George  ?  " 

Instead  of  answering,  George  pretended  to  sleep.  He 
had  heard  everything,  but  he  feared  that  Exili  might  see  his 
heart-beats  through  the  bedclothes. 

"George!" 

He  feigned  to  start  like  a  man  suddenly  awakened. 

"  What !     You  are  still  here?     Aren't  you  going?  " 

"  I  am  going  now — but  look  !     A  tortoise-shell  pin  !  " 

He  stooped  to  pick  it  up  from  the  carpet,  examined  it 
with  curiosity,  and  laid  it  on  the  coverlid. 

"  Lucky  fellow  !  "  he  exclaimed  in  the  same  ambiguous 
tone.  "  And  now,  ta-ta — a  thousand  thanks." 

He  extended  his  hand,  but  George  kept  his  beneath  the 
clothes.  The  chatterbox  turned  towards  the  door. 


20  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

"  Your  cognac  is  exquisite.  I'll  take  another  petit 
verre." 

He  drank,  and  then  went  away.  George,  in  his  bed, 
could  relish  the  poison  at  his  leisure. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  second  anniversary  fell  on  the  second  of  April. 

"This  time,"  said  Hippolyte,  "we  will  celebrate  it 
away  from  Rome.  We  must  pass  a  great  week  of  love ; 
all  by  ourselves,  no  matter  where,  but  not  here." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  first  anniversary,"  asked 
George,  "  that  of  last  year  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"  It  was  a  Sunday,  Easter  Sunday.  And  I  came  to  your 
rooms  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning.  And  you  wore  that 
little  English  jacket  that  pleased  me  so.  You  had  brought 
your  prayer-book." 

"  Oh  !  that  morning,  I  had  not  been  to  mass." 

"  You  were  in  such  a  hurry." 

"  My  departure  from  the  house  was  like  a  flight," 
answered  Hippolyte.  "  You  know,  on  holy  days,  I  could 
not  call  a  moment  my  own.  Yet,  for  all  that,  I  found  a 
way  to  remain  with  you  until  noon.  And  we  had  guests  for 
lunch  that  day." 

"  Then,  the  rest  of  the  day  we  could  not  see  each  other. 
It  was  a  sad  anniversary." 

"  Yes,  it  was,"  murmured  Hippolyte. 

"  And  that  sun  !" 

"  And  that  forest  of  flowers  in  your  room,"  she  laughed. 

"  I,  too,  on  that  morning,  had  gone  out  for  a  moment ;  I 
bought  up  almost  the  entire  flower  market." 

"  You  threw  hands  full  of  rose-leaves  at  me.     You  put  a 


22  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

number  of  the  leaves  down  my  neck,  in  my  sleeves.  Do 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  And  then,  at  the  house,  I  found  them  all  when  I  dis- 
robed." 

She  smiled. 

"  And  on  my  return  my  husband  found  leaves  on  my  hat, 
in  the  folds  of  my  dress." 

"  Yes,  you  told  me." 

"  I  did  not  go  out  again  that  day.  I  did  not  care  to  go 
out  again.  I  thought,  and  rethought.  Yes,  it  was  a  sad 
anniversary." 

After  an  interval  of  silent  revery,  she  spoke  again. 

"  Did  you  believe,  in  your  heart,  that  we  should  reach 
our  second  anniversary  ?  " 

"  I — no,"  he  replied. 

"Nor  I." 

"  What  love  !  "  thought  George,  "  that  which  carries 
within  itself  the  presentiment  of  its  end."  He  then 
thought  of  the  husband,  without  hate  and  even  with  a  sort 
of  compassionate  benevolence.  "  Now  she  is  free.  Why, 
then,  am  I  more  uneasy  now  than  formerly  ?  The  hus- 
band was  a  sort  of  guarantee  for  me ;  I  looked  on  him  as 
a  guardian  who  shielded  my  mistress  from  all  danger. 
Maybe  these  are  illusions ;  because  at  that  time,  also,  I 
suffered  much.  But  the  suffering  which  is  passed  seems 
always  less  severe  than  the  present  pain."  Following  his 
own  reflections,  he  no  longer  listened  to  Hippolyte's 
words. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "where  shall  we  go?  We  must  de- 
cide. To-morrow  is  the  first  of  April.  I  have  already  said 
to  my  mother :  '  You  know,  mamma,  one  of  these  days  I 
am  going  on  a  short  journey. '  I  must  prepare  her  for  my 


THE    PAST.  23 

departure.  Do  not  worry.  I  will  invent  a  plausible  pre- 
text. Leave  it  to  me." 

She  spoke  gayly;  she  smiled.  And  in  the  smile  which 
illuminated  her  closing  remarks  he  believed  he  discovered 
the  instinctive  contentment  which  a  woman  feels  when  con- 
cocting some  deception.  The  facility  with  which  Hip- 
polyte  succeeded  in  deceiving  her  mother  displeased  him. 
He  thought  once  more,  and  not  without  regret,  of  the  marital 
vigilance.  "  Why  suffer  so  cruelly  on  account  of  this  lib- 
erty," he  reflected,  "  when  it  is  in  the  service  of  my  pleas- 
ure ?  I  do  not  know  what  I  would  give  could  I  get  away  from 
my  fixed  idea,  from  my  suspicions  which  do  her  injustice. 
I  love  her,  and  I  wrong  her ;  I  love  her,  and  I  believe  her 
capable  of  an  unworthy  action  ! ' ' 

"  We  must  not  go  too  far,"  she  said.  "  You  ought  to 
know  of  some  peaceful  spot,  secluded,  full  of  trees,  inter- 
esting. Not  Tivoli,  nor  Frascati." 

"  Take  \heBaedeker — it's  there  on  the  table — and  look." 

"  Let  us  look  together." 

She  took  the  red  book,  knelt  close  to  the  couch  on  which 
he  was  seated,  and  with  pretty  gestures  and  infantile  grace 
she  began  to  turn  over  the  pages.  Every  few  moments  she 
read  a  few  lines  in  a  low  tone. 

He  sat  watching  her,  fascinated  by  the  finesse  of  the  nape 
of  her  neck,  from  which  the  little  brown  curls  mounted 
towards  the  crown  of  her  head,  twisted  into  a  sort  of  coil. 
He  looked  at  the  two  little  brown  spots,  beauty  spots,  the 
Twins  placed  one  by  the  side  of  the  other  on  the  whiteness 
of  the  velvety  neck  to  which  they  gave  an  ineffable  charm. 
He  remarked  that  she  wore  no  earrings.  In  fact,  for  two 
or  three  days  she  had  not  worn  her  sapphire  earrings. 
"  Has  she  sacrificed  them  on  account  of  some  money  embar- 
rassment ?  Who  knows  ?  She  may  be  suffering  silently  from 


24  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

the  cares  of  hard,  daily  necessities."  He  had  to  forcibly 
compel  himself  to  consider  seriously  the  thought  which 
haunted  him.  This  thought  was  as  follows  :  "  When  she 
becomes  tired  of  me  (and  that  will  not  be  very  long),  she 
will  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  first  comer  who  will  offer  her 
an  easy  life,  and  who,  in  exchange  for  sensual  pleasure,  will 
keep  her  from  want.  This  man  may  even  be  the  mcrcante  of 
whom  Exili  spoke.  Disgusted  with  petty  miseries,  she  will 
triumph  over  the  other  disgust;  she  will  adapt  herself.  It 
is  even  possible  that  she  will  not  have  to  overcome  any 
repugnance." 

He  remembered  the  mistress  of  one  of  her  friends,  the 
Countess  Albertini.  This  woman,  separated  from  her  hus- 
band, left  free  without  fortune,  had  descended  progress- 
ively to  lucrative  amours,  having  enough  cleverness  to  save 
appearances.  He  remembered  a  second  example,  which 
illustrated  even  more  truly  the  possibility  of  what  he 
feared.  And  confronted  with  this  possibility,  which  emerged 
from  the  unfathomable  future,  he  felt  an  inexpressible  pain. 
Henceforth  his  apprehensions  would  give  him  no  truce. 
Sooner  or  later,  he  was  fated  to  witness  the  fall  of  the  crea- 
ture he  had  placed  so  high.  Life  was  full  of  such  forfeit- 
ures. 

"  I  have  found  nothing,"  she  said  in  a  disappointed 
tone. 

"  Gubbio,  Narni,  Viterbo,  Orvieto!  Look  at  the  map  of 
Orvieto :  the  Monastery  of  Saint  Peter,  the  Monastery  of 
Saint  Paul,  the  Monastery  of  Jesus,  the  Monastery  of  Saint 
Bernardin,  the  Monastery  of  Saint  Louis,  the  Convent  of 
Saint  Dominique,  the  Convent  of  Saint  Francis,  the  Con- 
vent of  the  Servants  of  Mary. 

She  read  in  a  sing-song  tone,  as  if  she  were  reciting  a 
litany.  All  at  once  she  began  to  laugh,  threw  back  her 


THE    PAST.  25 

head,  and  offered  her  beautiful  forehead  to  the  lips  of  her 
lover.  She  was  in  one  of  those  moments  of  expanding 
kindness  which  gave  her  the  air  of  a  young  girl. 

"  What  a  number  of  monasteries  !  How  many  convents  ! 
It  must  be  a  strange  place.  Shall  we  go  to  Orvieto?  " 

George  experienced  a  sensation  as  if  his  soul  had  been 
overwhelmed  by  a  sudden  wave  of  freshness.  He  abandoned 
himself  with  gratitude  to  this  comforting  sign.  And,  as  he 
pressed  his  lips  to  Hippolyte's  brow,  he  gathered  there  the 
souvenir  of  the  city  of  the  Guelphs,  of  the  deserted  city 
which  is  silent  in  mute  adoration  of  its  marvellous  Duomo. 

"  Orvieto  !  were  you  never  there  ?  Imagine  to  yourself, 
at  the  top  of  a  rock  of  tufa,  overlooking  a  melancholy  val- 
ley, a  city  so  perfectly  silent  as  to  seem  without  inhabitants ; 
shutters  closed;  gray  lanes  in  which  the  grass  grows;  a 
capuchin  monk  crossing  a  public  square  ;  a  bishop  descend- 
ing from  a  black  carriage  in  front  of  some  hospital,  with 
a  decrepit  domestic  at  the  carriage-door ;  a  tower  against  a 
white  and  rainy  sky ;  a  clock  slowly  tolling  the  hours  ;  and 
all  at  once,  at  the  bottom  of  a  street,  a  miracle — the 
Duomo." 

"  What  peace  !  "  murmured  Hippolyte,  rather  dreamily, 
as  if  she  had  before  her  eyes  the  vision  of  this  silent  city. 

"  I  have  seen  Orvieto  in  February,"  he  went  on,  "  when 
the  weather  was  like  to-day,  uncertain — a  few  drops  of 
rain ;  a  few  beams  of  sunshine.  I  stayed  there  one  day,  and 
I  was  sorry  to  leave.  I  brought  away  with  me  a  feeling  of 
nostalgia  for  that  peace.  Oh !  what  peace  !  I  had  no 
other  companion  than  myself,  and  I  indulged  in  this 
dream :  '  To  have  a  mistress,  or,  to  express  it  better,  a  sis- 
ter-lover, who  would  be  full  of  devotion  ;  and  to  come  here, 
to  live  here  for  a  month,  a  long  April  month,  a  rather  rainy 
April,  ashen  but  mild,  with  showers  of  sunshine;  to  pass 


26  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

hours  and  hours  in,  or  before,  or  about  the  cathedral ;  to 
gather  roses  in  the  convents'  gardens  ;  to  visit  the  houses  of 
the  sisters  to  get  preserves ;  to  drink  delicious  perfumed 
liqueurs  from  small  Etruscan  cups ;  to  love  a  great  deal, 
and  sleep  a  great  deal  in  a  soft  bed  all  veiled  in  virginal 
white.'  " 

This  dream  made  Hippolyte  smile  with  happiness.  Put- 
ting on  an  innocent  expression,  she  said:  "I  am  pious, 
you  know.  Will  you  take  me  to  Orvieto  ?  " 

And  huddling  at  her  lover's  feet,  she  took  both  his  hands 
inhere.  An  immense  joy  invaded  her  whole  being;  she 
had  already  a  foretaste  of  the  promised  repose,  idleness, 
melancholy. 

"Tell  me  again." 

He  kissed  her  forehead,  lingering  over  it  with  chaste 
emotion.  Then  for  a  long  time  he  regarded  her  caressingly. 

"  Your  forehead  is  so  beautiful,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
thrill. 

At  that  moment  the  real  Hippolyte  corresponded  with 
the  ideal  Hippolyte  which  lived  in  his  heart.  He  beheld 
her  beautiful,  tender,  submissive,  breathing  a  noble  and 
sweet  poesy.  According  to  the  motto  he  had  invested 
her  with,  she  was  grave  and  suave — gravis  dum  suavis. 

"  Tell  me  again,"  she  murmured. 

A  soft  light  entered  from  the  balcony.  From  time  to  time 
the  windows  rattled  gently  under  the  breeze ;  and  the  rain- 
drops pattered  almost  noiselessly  on  the  panes. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  SINCE  we  have  already  enjoyed  in  imagination  the 
essence  of  pleasure,  since  we  have  tasted  all  that  our  sen- 
sations and  sentiments  could  experience  of  what  is  rarest 
and  most  delicate,  I  would  advise  that  we  renounce  the 
experience  of  reality.  Don't  let  us  go  to  Orvieto."  And 
he  chose  another  place :  Albano-Laziale. 

George  was  not  acquainted  with  Albano,  nor  Ariccia, 
nor  the  Lake  of  Nemi.  Hippolyte,  during  her  infancy, 
had  been  taken  to  Albano  to  the  house  of  an  aunt,  now 
dead.  For  him  this  trip  would  have  the  charm  of  the  un- 
known, and  for  her  it  would  evoke  the  souvenir  of  days  long 
distant.  Does  it  not  seem  as  if  a  new  vision  of  beauty 
renews  and  purifies  love  ?  Do  not  the  memories  of  the 
virginal  age  embalm  the  heart  with  a  perfume  always  fresh 
and  soothing  ? 

They  decided  to  leave  on  the  second  of  April,  at  noon, 
by  train.  Both  were  punctual  at  the  rendezvous  at  the  sta- 
tion, and  when  they  found  themselves  amidst  the  crowd 
they  felt  a  restless  joy  penetrate  their  souls. 

"  Shan't  we  be  seen  ?  Tell  me,  shan't  we  be  seen?" 
asked  Hippolyte,  half-laughing  and  half-trembling,  and 
imagining  that  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.  "  How  much 
longer  before  we  start  ?  Dio  Mio !  How  afraid  I 
am!" 

They  hoped  to  have  a  compartment  to  themselves ;  but, 
to  their  great  regret,  they  were  forced  to  resign  themselves 


28  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

to  having  three  travelling  companions.  George  saluted  a 
gentleman  and  lady. 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  asked  Hippolyte,  leaning  towards  her 
lover's  ear. 

"I  will  tell  you." 

She  examined  the  couple  with  curiosity.  The  gentleman 
was  an  old  man  with  a  long,  venerable  beard,  a  broad,  bald, 
yellowish  head,  marked  in  the  centre  by  a  deep  depression, 
a  sort  of  enormous  and  deformed  navel,  like  the  imprint 
which  would  be  caused  by  a  large  finger  pressed  into  a  soft 
substance.  The  lady,  wrapped  in  a  Persian  shawl,  showed, 
under  a  bonnet  fashioned  like  a  lamp-shade,  an  emaciated 
and  meditative  face ;  and  in  her  dress  as  in  her  physiog- 
nomy could  be  found  something  of  the  English  caricatures 
of  the  blue-stocking.  The  watery  eyes  of  the  elderly  man 
had,  however,  a  singular  vivacity;  they  seemed  illumined 
by  an  internal  fire,  like  those  of  an  ecstatic.  He  had 
acknowledged  George's  bow  by  a  very  amiable  smile. 

Hippolyte  racked  her  memory.  Where  could  she  have 
met  these  two  persons  ?  She  could  not  succeed  in  refresh- 
ing her  memory,  but  she  had  a  confused  feeling  that  these 
strange  old  people  had  been  involved  in  one  of  her  love- 
dreams. 

"  Who  is  it?    Tell  me,"  she  repeated  in  a  whisper. 

"The  Martlets — Mr.  Martlet  and  his  wife.  They  will 
bring  us  good  luck.  Do  you  know  where  we  first  met 
them  ?  " 

"No;  but  I  am  sure  that  I  have  seen  them  some- 
where." 

"  It  was  in  the  chapel  in  the  Via  Belsiana,  on  April  the 
2d,  when  I  first  knew  you." 

"  Ah  !  yes.     I  remember  !  " 

Her  eyes  lighted  up ;  the  coincidence  seemed  marvellous 


THE   PAST.  29 

to  her.  She  examined  anew  the  two  old  people,  and  felt 
a  kind  of  emotion. 

"  What  a  good  augury  !  " 

A  delicious  melancholy  came  over  her.  She  leaned  her 
head  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  and  thought  once  more 
of  bygone  days.  She  saw  again  the  little  church  in  the 
Via  Belsiana,  mysterious,  shrouded  in  a  bluish  penumbra ; 
the  gallery,  which  had  a  curve  like  a  balcony;  the  posy  of 
young  girls  chanting  in  the  choir.  Below,  the  group  of  mu- 
sicians with  their  string  instruments,  standing  in  front  of 
white-pine  pulpits.  Roundabout,  in  the  stalls  of  oak,  the 
seated  auditors,  few  in  number,  almost  all  gray  or  bald. 
The  chapel-master  beat  the  time.  A  pious  perfume  of  in- 
cense and  violets  mingled  with  the  music  of  Sebastian  Bach. 

Overcome  by  the  suavity  of  her  recollections,  she  leaned 
over  more  towards  her  lover,  and  murmured:  "Are  you 
thinking  of  the  old  days  too  ?  " 

She  would  have  liked  to  be  able  to  communicate  her  emo- 
tions, in  order  to  prove  to  him  that  she  had  forgotten  noth- 
ing, not  even  the  slightest  circumstance  of  that  solemn 
event.  He,  with  a  furtive  gesture,  sought  Hippolyte's  hand 
beneath  the  large  folds  of  their  travelling  rug,  and  kept  it 
slightly  pressed  in  his  own.  Both  felt  in  their  souls  a  thrill 
which  recalled  to  them  certain  delicate  sensations  of  the 
first  days  of  their  love.  And  they  remained  in  this  atti- 
tude, pensive,  somewhat  exalted,  somewhat  lethargic  from 
the  warmth,  soothed  by  the  even  and  continuous  movement 
of  the  train,  at  times  seeing  a  green-clad  landscape  in  the 
haze  through  the  carriage  windows.  The  sky  was  clouded ; 
it  was  raining.  Mr.  Martlet  dozed  in  a  corner;  Mrs.  Mart- 
let was  reading  a  review — the  Lyceum.  The  third  traveller 
slept  soundly,  his  cap  down  over  his  eyes. 

"  If  the  choir  missed  the  tempo,  Mr.  Martlet  beat  time 


30  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

with  energy,  like  the  chapel-master.  At  a  certain  mo- 
ment, all  the  old  men  beat  time,  as  if  moved  by  the  spirit 
of  the  music.  There  was  in  the  air  an  evaporated  perfume 
of  incense  and  violets."  George  abandoned  himself  with 
delight  to  the  capricious  workings  of  his  memory.  "  Could 
I  have  dreamed  of  a  stranger  or  more  poetic  prelude  to  my 
love  ?  It  seems  like  a  recollection  of  some  romantic  tale ; 
yet,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  souvenir  of  my  actual  life.  I 
constantly  retain  the  smallest  details  of  it  before  the  eyes 
of  my  soul.  The  poetry  of  this  beginning  shed,  later  on, 
the  shadow  of  a  dream  over  my  entire  love."  In  the 
drowsiness  of  a  light  torpor,  he  dwelt  on  certain  confused 
images  which  exerted  a  species  of  musical  fascination  over 
his  mind.  "  A  few  grains  of  incense — a  little  bouquet 
of  violets  !  " 

"  Look  how  Mr.  Martlet  sleeps  !  "  said  Hippolyte  in  a 
whisper.  "  As  peacefully  as  an  infant." 

Then  she  added,  smiling:  "You,  too,  are  sleepy,  are 
you  not  ?  It  is  still  raining.  What  a  strange  languor ! 
My  eyelids  feel  so  heavy." 

Her  eyes  half -shut,  she  looked  at  him  from  between  her 
long  eyelashes. 

George  thought  to  himself  :  "  Her  eyelashes  pleased  me 
at  once.  She  was  in  the  centre  of  the  chapel,  seated  on  a 
high-backed  bench.  Her  profile  was  delineated  in  the 
light  streaming  from  the  window.  When  the  clouds  outside 
cleared  away,  the  light  suddenly  grew  stronger.  She  made 
a  slight  movement,  and  in  the  light  I  saw  the  real  length  of 
her  eyelashes — a  prodigious  length." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Hippolyte,  "  will  it  be  long  before  we 
arrive  ? ' ' 

The  shrill  whistle  of  the  locomotive  announced  the  prox- 
imity of  a  station. 


THE   PAST.  31 

"I'll  wager,"  she  added,  "that  we  have  gone  beyond 
our  station." 

"Oh!  no." 

"  Very  well,  inquire." 

"  Segni-Paliano,"  cried  a  hoarse  voice  on  the  platform. 

George,  somewhat  startled,  stretched  out  his  head,  and 
asked  :  "  Is  this  Albano  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  this  is  Segni-Paliano,"  answered  the  man  with, 
a  smile.  "  Are  you  going  to  Albano  ?  Then  you  should 
have  alighted  at  Cecchina." 

Hippolyte  burst  into  such  a  loud  peal  of  laughter  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Martlet  looked  at  her  with  amazement. 
George  immediately  joined  in  the  contagious  hilarity. 

"What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,  we  must  get  out  of  this  train." 

George  handed  their  hand-bags  to  a  porter,  while  Hippo- 
lyte continued  to  laugh — her  fresh,  hearty  laugh — amused  at 
this  misadventure,  which  she  considered  capital  fun.  Mr. 
Martlet  looked  startled  at  this  outburst  of  youth,  which 
seemed  to  him  like  a  wave  of  sunshine,  but  he  smiled  with 
benevolent  condescension  and  bowed  to  Hippolyte,  who  at 
heart  felt  a  vague  regret  at  leaving  the  train. 

"  Poor  Mr.  Martlet !  "  she  said,  half  in  earnest,  half  in 
jest,  as  she  watched  the  train  moving  away  through  the  bleak 
and  deserted  country.  "  I  am  sorry  to  part  with  him. 
Who  knows  if  I  shall  ever  meet  him  again." 

Then,  turning  towards  George,  she  added,  "  What  now?  " 

A  railway  employee  gave  them  information. 

"  The  train  for  Cecchina  passes  here  at  half-past  four." 

"  We  can  manage,  then,"  continued  Hippolyte.  "  It  is 
now  half-past  two.  Now,  from  this  moment,  I  declare  that 
I  will  assume  the  management  of  this  journey.  You  will 
simply  permit  yourself  to  be  conducted.  Come,  my  little 


32  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

George.     Keep  close  to  me,  and  take  good  care  that  you 
don't  lose  yourself." 

She  spoke  to  him  as  to  a  baby,  in  jest.  They  both  felt 
full  of  gayety. 

"  Where  is  Segni  ?    Where  is  Paliano  ?  " 

No  village  could  be  seen  in  the  neighborhood.  The 
low  hills  spread  their  uncertain  verdure  beneath  a  gray  sky. 
Near  the  road,  a  single  little  tree,  knotted  and  gnarled, 
swayed  in  the  humid  atmosphere. 

As  it  still  poured,  the  two  wanderers  sought  shelter  at  the 
station,  in  a  small  room,  with  a  chimney-piece  without  a 
fire.  On  a  wall  hung  an  old  map  in  tatters,  its  surface  a 
network  of  black  lines.  On  another  wall  hung  a  square  of 
pasteboard  advertising  an  elixir.  Opposite  to  the  chimney 
which  had  not  even  the  memory  of  a  fire,  a  couch,  covered 
with  a  waxed  cloth,  was  losing  its  species  of  stuffing  by  a 
thousand  wounds. 

"  Look !  "  cried  Hippolyte,  who  was  reading  the  Bae- 
deker. "  At  Segni  there  is  the  Gaetanino  Hostelry." 

This  designation  made  them  laugh. 

"Suppose  we  smoke  a  cigarette  ?"  said  George.  "  It 
is  three  o'clock.  It  was  at  this  time  that  I  entered  the 
church,  two  years  ago." 

And,  once  more,  the  memory  of  the  great  day  occupied 
his  mind.  During  several  minutes  they  smoked  without 
speaking,  listening  to  the  rain,  which  had  increased  in 
force.  Through  the  drenched  window-panes  they  saw  the 
frail  little  tree,  twisting  and  bending  under  the  squall. 

"My  love  is  of  older  date  than  yours,"  said  George. 
"  It  was  born  before  that  day." 

She  protested. 

He,  fascinated  by  the  profound  charm  of  the  days  irrev- 
ocably passed,  continued  tenderly  :  "  I  can  see  you  again  as 


THE   PAST.  33 

you  passed  the  first  time.  What  an  ineffaceable  impression  ! 
It  was  towards  evening,  when  the  lights  begin  to  be  lit, 
when  waves  of  azure  fall  on  the  streets. 

"  I  was  alone  before  the  windows  of  Alinari.  I  was  look- 
ing at  the  figures,  but  distinguished  them  with  difficulty.  It 
was  an  indefinable  sensation — some  lassitude,  much  sad- 
ness, with  I  know  not  what  vague  desire  for  ideality. 
That  evening  I  had  an  ardent  thirst  for'poetry,  elevation, 
refined  and  spiritual  things.  Was  it  a  presentiment  ?  " 

He  made  a  long  pause;  but  Hippolyte  said  nothing, 
waiting  for  him  to  continue,  engrossed  in  the  exquisite 
pleasure  of  listening  to  him  among  the  light  smoke  of  the 
cigarettes,  which  seemed  to  envelop  the  veiled  memories 
in  still  another  veil. 

"  It  was  in  February.  I  was  paying  a  visit  to  Orvieto  at 
that  very  time.  I  even  believe  that  if  I  was  then  at  Ali- 
nari's,  it  was  to  ask  him  for  a  photograph  of  the  reliquary. 
And  you  passed  !  Since  then,  on  two  or  three  other  occa- 
sions— two  or  three,  not  more — I  have  seen  you  as  pale,  that 
singular  pallor.  You  cannot  imagine,  Hippolyte,  how  pale 
you  were.  Never  have  I  seen  its  equal.  I  thought :  '  How 
can  that  woman  keep  up  ?  She  cannot  have  a  single  drop 
of  blood  in  her  veins. '  It  was  a  supernatural  pallor,  which 
in  the  flood  of  azure  falling  from  the  sky  to  the  pavement 
gave  you  the  appearance  of  a  creature  without  a  body.  I 
paid  no  attention  to  the  man  who  accompanied  you;  I  did 
not  wish  to  follow  you ;  I  did  not  receive  even  as  much 
as  a  look  from  you.  I  recall  another  detail.  You  stopped 
a  few  steps  farther  on,  because  a  lamp-lighter  blocked  the 
pavement.  Ah  !  I  still  see  in  the  air  the  scintillation  of 
the  small  flame  at  the  summit  of  the  staff ;  I  see  the  sud- 
den lighting  of  the  gas  which  bathed  you  in  light." 

Hippolyte  smiled,  but  somewhat  sadly,  with  that  sadness 
3 


34  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

which  oppresses  the  heart  of  women  when  they  regard  their 
portraits  taken  in  former  days. 

"  Yes,  I  was  pale,"  she  said.  "  I  had  only  quitted  my 
bed  a  few  weeks  before,  after  a  three  months'  illness.  I 
had  been  at  death's  door." 

A  gust  of  rain  dashed  against  the  window-panes.  The 
little  tree  could  be  seen  bending  and  twisting  under  the 
wind  in  an  almost  circular  movement,  as  if  some  hand  were 
attempting  to  uproot  it.  For  several  minutes  they  both 
watched  the  fury  of  the  elements,  which,  in  the  bleakness, 
nakedness,  and  inert  torpor  of  the  surrounding  country,  took 
on  a  strange  appearance  of  conscious  life.  Hippolyte  felt 
almost  compassion.  The  imaginary  suffering  of  the  tree 
placed  them  face  to  face  with  their  own  sufferings.  They 
mentally  considered  the  great  solitude  which  lay  all  around 
the  station,  a  miserable  hut  before  which  passed  from  time 
to  time  a  train-load  of  divers  travellers,  each  of  whom 
carried  in  his  own  bosom  a  different  inquietude.  Sad 
images  rapidly  succeeded  one  another  in  their  thoughts, 
suggested  by  the  same  things  they  had  seen  an  hour  before 
with  joyous  eyes.  And  when  the  images  faded  away,  when 
their  consciences,  ceasing  to  be  impressed,  returned  to 
themselves  again,  they  both  found,  at  the  bottom  of  their 
being,  a  unique  and  inexpressible  anguish — a  regret  for  days 
irrevocably  lost. 

Their  love  had  behind  it  a  \ongflast.  It  dragged  behind 
it,  through  the  years,  an  immense  and  obscure  net,  full  of 
dead  things. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Hippolyte,  her  voice 
slightly  changed. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  George,  looking 
fixedly  at  her. 

Neither  replied  to  the  question.     They  remained  silent, 


THE    PAST.  35 

and  renewed  their  gaze  through  the  windows.  The  heavens 
seemed  to  smile  tearfully.  A  faint  glimmer  lit  up  a  hil- 
lock, bathed  it  in  a  fugitive  golden  glow,  died  away. 
Other  sun-rays  tried  to  pierce  the  moisture-laden  cloud- 
banks,  then  disappeared. 

"  Hippolyte  Sanzio  !  "  said  George,  pronouncing  the 
name  slowly,  as  if  to  enjoy  its  charm.  "  How  my  heart 
beat  when  I  finally  learned  that  was  your  name  !  How 
many  things  have  I  seen  and  felt  in  that  name  !  It  was  the 
name  of  one  of  my  sisters,  who  is  dead.  That  beautiful 
name  was  familiar  to  me.  With  profound  emotion,  I  im- 
mediately thought,  '  Oh  !  if  my  lips  could  only  resume  their 
dear  custom.'  That  day,  from  morning  until  night,  the 
recollections  of  my  dead  sister  mingled  exquisitely  with  my 
secret  dream.  I  did  not  go  in  search  of  you;  I  forbade 
myself  such  pursuit ;  I  would  never  be  importunate  ;  yet,  at 
heart,  I  had  an  inexplicable  confidence.  I  was  sure  that, 
sooner  or  later,  you  would  know  me  and  love  me.  What 
delicious  sensations  were  mine  !  I  lived  outside  of  the 
reality;  my  soul  fed  only  on  music  and  exalting  books.  One 
day  it  happened  that  I  saw  you  at  a  concert  given  by  Gian 
Sgambati ;  but  I  saw  you  only  just  as  you  were  about  to  leave 
the  hall.  You  gave  me  a  glance.  Another  time,  again,  you 
looked  at  me — maybe  you  remember  ?  It  was  when  we  met 
at  the  entrance  to  the  Via  del  Babuino,  opposite  the  Piale 
Library. ' ' 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

"  You  had  a  little  girl  with  you." 

"  Yes  ;  Cecilia — one  of  my  nieces." 

"  I  stopped  on  the  sidewalk — so  as  to  allow  you  to  pass. 
I  noticed  that  we  were  both  of  the  same  height.  You  were 
less  pale  than  usual.  A  momentary  feeling  of  pride  flashed 
through  me." 


36  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  You  had  guessed  correctly,"  said  Hippolyte. 

"  You  remember  ?  It  was  towards  the  end  of  March. 
I  waited  with  growing  confidence.  I  lived  from  day  to  day 
absorbed  in  thoughts  of  the  great  passion  which  I  felt 
approaching.  As  I  had  seen  you  twice  with  a  small  bouquet 
of  violets,  I  filled  all  my  house  with  violets.  Oh  !  that 
beginning  of  spring  I  shall  never  forget !  And  the  morning 
slumbers,  so  light,  so  transparent !  And  those  slow,  dreamy 
awakenings,  in  which,  while  my  eyes  were  becoming  used  to 
the  light,  my  mind  still  delayed  before  resuming  the  senti- 
ment of  reality  !  I  recall  that  certain  childish  artifices 
sufficed  to  throw  me  into  a  species  of  illusionary  intoxica- 
tion. I  remember,  one  day,  at  a  concert,  while  listening  to 
a  Beethoven  sonata,  in  which  a  frequent  and  periodic  return 
of  a  sublime  and  passionate  phrase  recurred,  I  exalted  my- 
self almost  to  a  state  of  madness  by  the  interior  repetition 
of  a  poetical  phrase  in  which  your  name  occurred." 

Hippolyte  smiled;  but,  hearing  him  speak  with  an  evi- 
dent preference  for  all  the  first  manifestations  of  his  love, 
at  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  felt  displeased.  Did  those 
days  seem  sweeter  to  him  than  the  present — were  those  dis- 
tant recollections  his  dearest  recollections  ? 

George  went  on  :  "  All  the  disdain  which  I  have  for  a 
commonplace  existence  would  never  have  sufficed  to  in- 
spire me  with  the  dream  .of  an  asylum  as  fantastic  and  mys- 
terious as  the  abandoned  oratory  of  the  Via  Belsiana.  Do 
you  recall  it  ?  The  door  at  the  head  of  the  steps,  open- 
ing on  the  street,  was  shut,  and  had  been  for  years  perhaps. 
One  passed  through  a  side  alley  which  reeked  of  wine,  and 
in  which  there  was  the  red  sign  of  a  cabaret,  with  a  large 
cork.  Do  you  remember  it?  The  entrance  was  at  the  rear, 
and  one  had  to  pass  through  a  sacristy  scarcely  large  enough 
to  hold  a  priest  and  sacristan.  It  was  the  entrance  to  the 


THE   PAST.  37 

sanctuary  of  Wisdom.  What  curious-looking  old  men,  and 
women,  on  all  sides,  in  the  worm-eaten  stalls  !  Where  had 
Alexander  Memmi  been,  to  procure  his  audience  ?  Doubtless 
you  did  not  know,  dear  one,  that  you  personified  Beauty  in 
this  council  of  the  music-mad.  Mr.  Martlet,  you  see,  is  one 
of  the  most  confirmed  Buddhists  of  our  epoch ;  and  his  wife 
has  written  a  book  on  the  Philosophy  of  Music.  The  lady 
seated  near  you  was  Margherita  Traube  Boll,  a  celebrated 
doctor  who  is  carrying  on  her  defunct  husband's  investiga- 
tions into  the  visual  functions.  The  necromancer,  in  the 
long  greenish  cloak,  who  entered  on  tiptoe,  was  a  Jew — a 
German  physician,  Dr.  Eleichl,  a  superb  pianist,  a  fanatic 
on  Bach.  The  priest  seated  beneath  the  cross  was  Count 
Castracane,  an  immortal  botanist.  Another  botanist,  a 
bacteriologist,  a  microscopist,  named  Cuboni,  was  sitting 
in  front  of  him.  And  there  was  also  Jacopo  Moleschott, 
that  unforgettable  old  man,  frank,  enormous ;  also  Blaserna, 
the  collaborator  of  Helmholtz  in  the  theory  of  sound ;  and 
Mr.  Davys,  a  philosophical  painter,  a  Preraphaelite  plunged 
into  Brahmanism.  The  others,  less  numerous,  were  all 
superior  people,  rare  minds  given  to  the  highest  specula- 
tions of  modern  science,  cold  investigators  of  life  and  pas- 
sionate adorers  of  dreams." 

He  interrupted  himself  in  order  to  conjure  up  the 
picture,  and  then  went  on : 

"  These  savants  listened  to  the  music  with  religious  en- 
thusiasm ;  one  assumed  an  inspired  attitude ;  others  made 
unconscious  gestures,  in  imitation  of  the  chapel -master; 
others,  in  low  tones,  joined  in  chant  with  the  choir.  The 
choir,  of  men  and  women,  occupied  the  rostrum,  the 
painted  wood  of  which  still  showed  traces  of  gilding. 
In  front  the  young  girls  formed  a  group,  with  their  parti- 
tions kept  on  a  level  with  their  faces.  Below,  on  the 


38  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

roughly  made  stands  of  the  violinists,  burned  candles,  spots 
of  gold  on  a  dark  blue  background.  Here  and  there  their 
small  flames  were  reflected  by  the  varnished  body  of  an 
instrument,  put  a  luminous  point  on  the  tip  of  a  bow. 
Alexander  Memmi,  somewhat  stiff,  bald,  with  a  short  black 
beard  and  gold  spectacles,  kept  time  with  severe  and  sober 
gestures.  At  the  close  of  every  piece  a  murmur  arose 
in  the  chapel,  and  laughs,  badly  suppressed,  descended 
from  the  gallery,  amidst  the  rustling  of  music-pages  being 
turned.  When  the  sky  brightened,  the  candle-flames  grew 
pale ;  and  a  cross  very  high  up,  which  had  figured  in  former 
years  in  solemn  processions,  a  cross  all  ornamented  with 
golden  olives  and  foliage,  seemed  as  if  detached  from  the 
wall,  in  a  burst  of  light.  The  white  and  bald  heads  of 
the  auditors  shone  on  the  oaken  backs.  Then  all  at  once, 
by  a  new  change  in  the  sky,  the  shadow  again  began  to 
creep  among  these  things,  like  a  light  mist.  A  scarcely  per- 
ceptible wave  of  some  subtle  odor — incense  or  benzoin? — 
invaded  the  nave. 

"  On  the  single  altar,  in  glass  vases,  two  bouquets  of 
violets,  somewhat  faded,  exhaled  the  breath  of  spring;  and 
this  double-fading  perfume  was  like  the  poesy  of  dreams 
which  the  music  evoked  in  the  souls  of  the  old  men,  while 
close  by,  in  quite  different  souls,  there  developed  another 
dream  :  like  an  aurora  on  melting  snows." 

It  pleased  him  to  reconstruct  this  scene,  to  render  it  poet- 
ical— to  warm  it  again  with  lyric  breath. 

"  Is  it  not  preposterous,  unbelievable?  "  he  cried.  "  At 
Rome,  in  the  city  of  intellectual  inertia,  a  master  of  music, 
a  Buddhist  who  has  published  two  volumes  of  essays  on  the 
philosophy  of  Schopenhauer,  indulges  in  the  luxury  of  hav- 
ing a  mass  by  Sebastian  Bach  executed  for  his  own  pleasure, 
in  a  mysterious  chapel  before  an  audience  of  great  music- 


THE    PAST.  39 

mad  savants,  whose  daughters  sing  in  the  chorus.  Is  it  not 
a  page  from  Hoffmann  ?  On  an  afternoon  of  a  somewhat 
gray  but  warm  spring — these  old  philosophers  quit  their 
laboratories,  where  they  have  obstinately  striven  to  wrest 
from  life  one  of  its  secrets ;  and  they  assemble  in  a  hidden 
oratory  in  order  to  satisfy,  almost  to  intoxication,  the  pas- 
sion that  has  drawn  together  their  hearts,  to  leave  their 
earthly  bodies,  and  live  ideally  in  dreams.  And,  in  the 
midst  of  this  old  men's  gathering,  an  exquisite  musical 
idyll  unfolds  between  the  cousin  of  the  Buddhist  and  the 
friend  of  the  Buddhist,  ideally  speaking.  And  when  the 
mass  is  finished,  the  Buddhist,  suspecting  nothing,  presents 
the  future  lover  to  the  divine  Hippolyte  Sanzio." 

He  began  to  laugh,  and  then  arose.  "  I  have  made,  it 
seems  to  me,  a  commemoration  according  to  rule." 

For  an  instant  Hippolyte  remained  somewhat  absorbed, 
then  she  said  :  "  Do  you  remember,  it  was  on  a  Saturday, 
the  eve  of  Palm  Sunday  ?  " 

She  also  arose,  approached  George,  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

"  Shall  we  go  now  ?     It  is  no  longer  raining." 

They  went  out  and  strolled  along  the  wet  pavement,  which 
reflected  the  subdued  sunlight.  The  cold  air  made  them 
shiver.  Roundabout,  the  undulating  hills  were  covered 
with  verdure  and  furrowed  with  luminous  streaks ;  here  and 
there  large  pools  of  water  reflected  the  pale  image  of  a 
sky  whose  deep  azure  spread  out  between  the  flaky  clouds. 
The  little  tree,  dripping  with  rain,  was  illumined  at  intervals. 

"That  little  tree  will  remain  as  one  of  our  remem« 
brances,"  said  Hippolyte,  stopping  to  look  at  it.  "  It  is 
so  lonely,  so  lonely." 

The  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  train.  It  was  a 
quarter  past  four.  A  railway  employee  offered  to  get  their 
tickets.  ' '  When  shall  we  arrive  at  Albano  ?  ' '  George  asked. 


40  THE   TklUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

"  About  seven  o'clock." 

"  It  will  be  night,"  said  Hippolyte. 

As  she  felt  rather  cold,  she  took  George's  arm ;  and 
she  was  pleased  to  think  that  they  would  arrive  at  a  strange 
hotel  this  chilly  evening,  and  that  they  would  dine  alone 
before  a  bright  fire. 

George  perceived  that  she  trembled,  and  asked :  "  Do 
you  wish  to  go  in  again  ?  " 

"No,"  she  replied.  "  You  see,  the  sun's  coming  out. 
I  shall  warm  up." 

An  indefinable  desire  for  intimacy  had  seized  her.  She 
pressed  closely  to  him,  became  suddenly  caressing,  and  her 
voice,  look,  contact,  gestures — and  all  her  being — were  full 
of  seduction.  She  wished  to  shed  over  the  loved  one  the 
most  feminine  of  her  charms;  she  wished  to  intoxicate  him, 
to  dazzle  him  with  a  display  of  present  happiness  capable 
of  eclipsing  the  reflection  of  bygone  happiness.  She 
wished  to  appear  to  him  more  amiable,  more  adorable, 
more  desirable  than  ever  before.  A  fear  assailed  her — an 
atrocious  fear — that  he  might  regret  the  woman  of  long  ago, 
sigh  for  the  vanished  delights,  believe  that  then  only  had 
he  attained  the  height  of  intoxication.  "  His  recollec- 
tions," she  thought,  "  have  filled  my  soul  with  so  much 
melancholy  !  I  have  restrained  my  tears  with  difficulty. 
And  he  too,  perhaps,  is  sad  at  heart.  How  heavily  the 
past  hangs  over  our  love  !  Perhaps  he  is  tired  of  me  ? 
Perhaps  he  is  unaware  of  this  weariness,  and  does  not  avow 
it  to  himself,  willing  to  live  under  the  illusion  ?  But  he  is 
perhaps  incapable  now  of  finding  any  happiness  in  me.  Lf 
I  am  still  dear  to  him,  it  is  perhaps  only  because  he  recog- 
nizes in  me  an  object  for  his  dear  sorrows.  Alas  !  I  too, 
when  with  him,  taste  true  happiness  only  at  rare  intervals ; 
I  suffer  too,  and  yet  I  love  him,  and  I  love  my  suffering, 


THE   PAST.  41 

and  my  only  desire  is  to  please  him,  and  I  cannot  imagine 
life  without  this  love.  Why  then  are  we  so  sad,  since  we 
love  one  another  ?  ' ' 

She  leaned  heavily  on  her  lover's  arm,  gazing  at  him  with 
eyes  to  which  the  shadow  of  her  thoughts  imparted  an  ex- 
pression of  profound  tenderness. 

"  Two  years  ago,  about  the  same  hour,  we  left  the  chapel 
together;  and  he  spoke  to  me  of  things  in  noway  con- 
nected with  love,  in  a  voice  which  moved  my  heart,  which 
touched  my  soul  as  if  with  a  caress  of  the  lips ;  and  this 
ideal  caress  I  enjoyed  like  a  long  kiss.  I  trembled,  I 
trembled  incessantly,  because  I  felt  an  unknown  feeling 
born  in  me.  Oh  !  it  was  a  divine  hour  !  We  have  reached 
our  second  anniversary  to-day,  and  we  still  love  one  another. 
Just  now  he  spoke ;  and  if  his  voice  affected  me  differently 
than  it  used  to  do,  it  still  moves  me  to  the  bottom  of  my 
soul.  We  have  before  us  a  delightful  evening.  Why  re- 
gret the  days  that  are  gone  ?  Our  liberty,  our  present  inti- 
macy, are  they  not  worth  the  incertitude  and  hesitations  of 
that  time  ?  Even  our  memories,  so  numerous,  do  they  not 
add  a  new  charm  to  our  love  ?  I  love  him — I  give  myself 
up  to  him  entirely ;  in  the  presence  of  his  desire  I  no  longer 
know  modesty.  In  two  years  he  has  transformed  me ;  he 
has  made  of  me  another  woman ;  he  has  given  me  new 
senses,  a  new  soul,  a  new  intelligence.  I  am  his  creation. 
He  can  intoxicate  himself  through  me  as  he  would  through 
one  of  his  own  thoughts.  I  belong  entirely  to  him,  now 
and  forever." 

Then,  passionately  pressing  her  form  against  his,  she 
asked,  ' '  Are  you  not  happy  ?  ' ' 

The  tone  in  which  she  spoke  moved  him ;  and,  as  if  sud- 
denly enveloped  by  a  warm  breath,  he  experienced  a  thrill 
of  real  happiness. 


42  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  Yes,  I  am  happy,"  he  answered. 

And  when  the  locomotive  whistle  was  heard,  their  hearts 
had  the  same  palpitation. 

At  last  they  were  alone  in  their  compartment.  She  closed 
all  the  windows,  waited  until  the  train  was  again  in  motion  ; 
they  fell  into  each  other's  arms,  kissed  each  other,  and 
repeated  all  the  caressing  names  which  their  tenderness  of 
the  last  two  years  had  used. 

Then  they  sat  still,  side  by  side,  a  vague  smile  on  their 
lips  and  in  their  eyes,  and  with  the  sensation  that,  little  by 
little,  the  rapid  coursing  of  their  blood  was  abating. 
Through  the  windows  they  watched  the  monotonous  country 
as  it  rushed  by  and  disappeared  into  the  violet-colored  fog. 

"  Rest  your  head  on  my  knees,  and  lie  down,"  said  Hip- 
polyte. 

He  laid  his  head  on  her  knee.  She  said :  "  The  wind 
has  disarranged  your  mustache."  With  her  finger-tips  she 
raised  several  of  the  light  hairs  which  had  fallen  on  his 
mouth.  He  kissed  her  finger-tips.  She  passed  her  hand 
through  his  hair.  She  said  :  "  You,  too,  have  very  long 
eyelashes." 

To  admire  his  lashes,  she  closed  his  eyes.  Then  she 
caressed  his  brow  and  temples ;  she  made  him  kiss  once 
more  each  one  of  her  fingers,  one  after  the  other,  her  head 
bent  over  George.  And  from  beneath,  George  saw  her 
mouth  open  with  infinite  slowness,  saw  unfold  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  her  teeth.  She  closed  her  mouth,  then  again 
slowly  opened  it,  with  an  almost  insensible  movement — 
like  a  flower  with  two  petals;  and  a  pearly  whiteness  shone 
from  within.  This  delightful  sport  threw  them  into  a  state 
of  languor ;  they  forgot  everything — they  were  happy.  The 
monotonous  motion  of  the  train  soothed  them.  In  low 
tones  they  exchanged  terms  of  adoration. 


THE   PAST.  43 

"  This  is  our  first  journey  together,"  she  said,  smiling. 
"  It  is  the  first  time  we  are  alone  in  a  train." 

She  took  delight  in  repeating  that  this  was  a  new  experi- 
ence for  them. 

George,  who  had  already  felt  the  spur  of  desire,  became 
more  animated.  He  raised  himself  up,  he  kissed  her  on  the 
neck,  just  on  the  Twins ;  he  whispered  something  in  her 
ear.  An  inexpressible  light  lit  up  Hippolyte's  eyes,  but 
she  answered  with  vivacity:  "No,  no,  we  must  be  good 
until  this  evening.  We  must  wait." 

Once  more  she  saw  a  vision  of  the  silent  hotel,  of  the  fur- 
nished chamber,  of  the  large  bed  hidden  beneath  a  white 
mosquito  curtain. 

"  At  this  season  of  the  year,"  she  said,  in  order  to  dis- 
tract her  lover's  attention,  "  there  will  scarcely  be  anyone 
at  Albano.  How  nice  it  will  be,  all  alone  in  an  empty 
hotel.  We  shall  be  taken  for  a  young  couple." 

She  wrapped  herself  in  her  mantle  with  a  thrill,  and 
leaned  against  George's  shoulder. 

"  It  is  cold  to-day,  isn't  it  ?  When  we  arrive  we'll  light 
a  big  fire,  and  we'll  take  a  cup  of  tea." 

For  them  it  was  an  acute  pleasure  to  imagine  the  ap- 
proaching intoxication.  They  spoke  in  low  tones,  com- 
municating the  ardor  of  their  blood,  exchanging  burning 
promises.  But,  as  they  talked  of  future  voluptuousness, 
their  present  desire  grew,  became  irresistible.  They  lapsed 
into  silence,  they  united  their  lips;  they  heard  nothing 
more  but  the  tumultuous  beating  of  their  arteries. 

Afterwards,  it  seemed  to  them  both  as  if  a  veil  had  been 
torn  from  before  their  eyes,  that  an  internal  mist  was  being 
dissipated — that  the  enchantment  was  broken.  The  fire  in 
the  imaginary  chamber  went  out ;  the  bed  seemed  icy,  and 


44  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

the  silence  of  the  empty  hotel  became  heavy.  Hippolyte 
leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  seat,  watching 
the  vast,  monotonous  country  disappearing  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

At  her  side,  George  had  again  fallen  beneath  the  empire 
of  his  perfidious  thoughts.  A  horrible  vision  tortured  him, 
against  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  contend,  because 
he  saw  it  with  the  eyes  of  his  soul,  those  eyes,  pupil-less, 
that  no  force  of  will  can  shut. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  asked  Hippolyte,  uneasy. 

"Of  you." 

He  thought  of  her,  of  her  wedding-trip — of  the  ways  in 
which  the  newly  married  generally  act.  "  Without  the 
least  doubt,  she  found  herself  alone  with  her  husband  just 
as  she  is  now  with  me.  And  it  is  perhaps  this  remem- 
brance which  causes  her  sadness."  He  thought  also  of  the 
rapid  adventures  between  two  stations,  of  the  sudden  dis- 
quietude caused  by  a  look — of  the  seizures  of  sensuality 
during  the  suffocating  length  of  an  afternoon  during  the 
dog-days.  "What  horror!  What  horror!"  He  started 
violently,  a  particular  kind  of  start  that  Hippolyte  knew  too 
well  to  be  a  sure  symptom  of  the  malady  which  afflicted  her 
lover.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers  and  asked : 

"  Are  you  in  pain  ?  " 

He  nodded,  looking  at  her  with  an  unhappy  smile.  But 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  push  her  questioning  further,  be- 
cause she  feared  a  bitter  and  heart-breaking  answer.  She 
preferred  to  remain  silent ;  but  she  kissed  him  on  his  fore- 
head— a  long  kiss,  as  usual,  in  the  hope  of  unloosening  the 
tangle  of  cruel  reflections. 

"  Here  we  are  at  Cecchina !  "  she  cried  with  relief,  as 
she  heard  the  whistle  announcing  their  arrival.  "  Quick — 
quick,  love,  we  must  get  down." 


1HE    PAST.  45 

In  order  to  amuse  him,  she  affected  gayety.  She  lowered 
the  window  and  looked  out. 

"  The  evening  is  cold,  but  beautiful.  Make  haste, 
love.  This  is  our  anniversary.  We  must  be  happy." 

The  sound  of  her  strong  and  tender  voice  drove  away  his 
gloominess.  On  alighting  in  the  fresh  air,  he  felt  himself 
restored  to  serenity. 

A  sky,  limpid  as  a  diamond,  curved  like  a  vault  over  the 
country  drenched  with  water.  In  the  transparent  atmos- 
phere there  still  flitted  beams  of  crepuscular  light.  The 
stars  came  out  one  by  one,  as  if  shaken  on  the  staffs  of  invis- 
ible lamp-bearers. 

"We  must  be  happy."  George  heard  internally  the 
echo  of  Hippolyte's  remark ;  and  his  soul  swelled  with 
indefinite  aspirations.  On  this  solemn  and  pure  night  the 
quiet  chamber,  the  flaming  hearth,  the  bed  with  its  white- 
gauze  draperies,  appeared  to  him  to  be  elements  too  humble 
for  happiness.  "  It  is  our  anniversary — we  must  be  happy." 
Of  what  had  he  thought — what  was  he  doing,  at  this  same 
hour  two  years  ago  ?  He  had  wandered  aimlessly  through 
the  streets,  pressed  on  by  an  instinctive  desire  to  seek  more 
deserted  spots,  yet  attracted  nevertheless  towards  the  popu- 
lous quarters,  where  his  pride  and  joy  seemed  to  grow  by  con- 
trast with  the  common  life ;  where  the  ambient  noises  of 
the  city  sounded  in  his  ears  only  like  a  distant  murmur. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  old  hotel  of  Ludovico  Togni ,  with  the  walls  of  its 
long  vestibule  done  in  stucco  and  painted  to  imitate 
marble,  with  its  landing-places  with  green  doors,  decorated 
all  over  with  commemorative  stones,  gave  an  immediate 
impression  of  quasi-conventional  peace.  All  the  furniture 
had  an  aspect  of  being  heirlooms.  The  beds,  the  chairs, 
the  sofas,  the  couches,  the  chests  of  drawers,  had  the  style  of 
another  age,  now  fallen  into  disuse.  The  delicately  colored 
ceilings,  bright  yellow  and  sky-blue,  were  decorated  at  their 
centres  with  garlands  of  roses  or  other  usual  symbols,  such 
as  a  lyre,  a  torch,  or  a  quiver.  On  the  paper-hangings  and 
woollen  carpet  the  bouquets  of  flowers  had  faded,  and  had 
become  almost  invisible ;  the  window  curtains,  white  and 
modest,  hung  from  poles  from  which  the  gilt  had  worn 
off;  the  rococo  mirrors,  while  reflecting  these  antique  images 
in  a  dull  mist,  imparted  to  them  that  air  of  melancholy,  and 
almost  of  unreality,  which  solitary  pools  sometimes  give  at 
their  edges. 

"How  pleased  I  am  to  be  here  1"  cried  Hippolyte, 
penetrated  by  the  charm  of  this  peaceful  spot.  "  I  wish  I 
could  stay  here  forever." 

And  she  drew  herself  up  in  the  great  armchair,  her  head 
leaning  against  the  back,  which  was  decorated  with  a 
crescent,  a  modest  crochet-work  in  white  cotton. 

She  thought  once  more  of  her  dead  aunt  Jane  and  of 
her  distant  infancy. 


THE   PAST. 


49 


"  Poor  aunt !  "  she  said ;  "  she  had,  I  recall,  a  house  las  ! 
this — a  house  in  which,  for  a  century,  the  furniture  had 
not  been  moved  from  its  place.  I  always  recollect  her  un- 
happiness  when  I  broke  one  of  those  glass  globes  beneath 
which  artificial  flowers  are  preserved,  you  know.  I  remem- 
ber she  cried  over  it.  Poor  old  aunt !  I  can  see  her  black- 
lace  cap,  with  her  white  curls  which  hung  down  her 
cheeks." 

She  spoke  slowly,  pausing  from  time  to  time,  her  gaze 
fixed  on  the  fire  which  flamed  in  the  fireplace ;  and,  every 
now  and  then,  so  as  to  smile  at  George,  she  raised  her  eyes, 
which  were  somewhat  downcast  and  surrounded  by  dark  vio- 
let rings ;  while  from  the  street  arose  the  monotonous  and 
regular  noise  of  pavers  beating  the  pavement. 

"  In  the  house,  I  can  recall,  there  was  a  large  hay-loft 
with  two  or  three  windows,  where  we  kept  the  pigeons. 
You  reached  the  loft  by  means  of  a  small,  straight  stairway, 
against  the  wall  of  which  hung,  heaven  knows  since  when, 
skins  of  hares,  hairless  and  dried,  stretched  from  two  ends 
of  crossed  reeds.  Every  day  I  carried  food  to  the  pigeons. 
As  soon  as  they  heard  me  coming,  they  clustered  around 
the  door.  When  I  entered,  it  was  a  veritable  assault.  Then 
I  would  sit  on  the  floor  and  scatter  the  barley  all  around 
me.  The  pigeons  surrounded  me  ;  they  were  all  white,  and 
I  watched  them  pecking  up  their  food.  The  sound  of  a 
flute  stole  in  from  a  neighboring  house ;  always  the  same 
air  at  the  same  hour.  This  music  seemed  delicious  to 
me.  I  listened,  my  head  raised  to  the  window,  my 
mouth  wide  open,  as  if  to  drink  in  the  notes  which 
showered.  From  time  to  time  a  belated  pigeon  arrived, 
beating  her  wings  on  my  head,  and  filling  my  hair  with 
white  feathers.  And  the  invisible  flute  went  on  playing. 
The  air  still  rings  in  my  ears ;  I  could  hum  it.  That  is 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

.  I  acquired  a  passion  for  music,  in  a  dovecote,  when  a 
child." 

And  she  repeated  mentally  the  air  of  the  ancient  flute  of 
Albano ;  she  enjoyed  its  sweetness  with  a  melancholy  com- 
parable to  that  of  the  wife  who,  after  many  years,  discovers 
a  forgotten  sugar-plum  at  the  bottom  of  her  wedding-box. 
There  was  an  interval  of  silence.  A  bell  sounded  in  the 
corridor  of  the  peaceful  residence. 

"  I  remember.  A  lame  turtle-dove  hopped  into  the  room  ; 
and  it  was  one  of  my  aunt's  greatest  favorites. 

"  One  day  a  little  girl  of  the  neighborhood  came  to  play 
with  me — a  pretty  little  blond  girl  named  Clarisse.  My 
aunt  was  confined  to  bed  by  a  cold.  We  amused  ourselves 
on  the  terrace,  to  the  great  damage  of  the  vases  of  pinks. 
The  turtle-dove  appeared  on  the  sill,  looked  at  us  without 
suspicion,  and  squatted  down  in  a  corner  to  enjoy  the  sun- 
shine. Scarcely  had  Clarisse  perceived  it,  however,  when 
she  started  forward  to  seize  it.  The  poor  little  creature  tried 
to  escape  by  hopping  away,  but  it  limped  so  comically  that 
we  could  not  control  our  laughter.  Clarisse  caught  it ;  she 
was  a  cruel  child.  From  laughing,  we  were  both  as  drunk. 
The  turtle-dove  trembled  with  fear  in  our  hands. 

"  Clarisse  plucked  one  of  its  feathers;  then  (I  shudder 
still  when  I  think  of  it)  she  plucked  the  dove  almost  en- 
tirely, before  my  eyes,  with  peals  of  laughter  which  made 
me  laugh  too.  One  could  have  believed  that  she  was 
intoxicated.  The  poor  creature,  despoiled  of  its  feathers, 
bleeding,  escaped  into  the  house  as  soon  as  it  was  liber- 
ated. We  started  to  pursue  it,  but,  almost  at  the  same 
moment,  we  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  bell,  and  the  calls  of 
my  aunt  who  was  coughing  in  her  bed.  Clarisse  escaped 
rapidly  by  the  stairway ;  I  hid  myself  behind  the  curtains. 
The  turtle-dove  died  that  same  night.  My  aunt  sent  me  to 


THE    PAST.  49 

Rome,  convinced  that  I  was  guilty  of  this  barbarity.  Alas  ! 
I  never  saw  Aunt  Jane  again.  How  I  have  wept !  My 
remorse  will  last  forever." 

She  spoke  slowly,  pausing  from  time  to  time,  fixing  her 
dilated  eyes  on  the  flaming  hearth,  which  almost  magnetized 
her,  which  began  to  overcome  her  with  a  hypnotic  torpor, 
while  from  the  street  arose  the  monotonous  and  regular 
noise  of  pavers  beating  the  pavement. 


CHAPTER    VI, 

ONE  day  the  lovers  came  back  from  Lake  Nerm  somewhat 
fatigued.  They  had  dined  at  the  Cesarini  Villa,  beneath 
showy  camellias  in  bloom.  Alone,  with  the  emotion  felt 
only  by  him  who  contemplates  the  most  secret  of  secret 
things,  they  had  contemplated  the  Mirror  of  Diana,  as  cold, 
as  impenetrable  to  the  view  as  the  deep  blue  of  a  glacier. 

As  usual,  they  ordered  tea.  Hippolyte,  who  was  look- 
ing for  something  in  a  valise,  turned  suddenly  towards 
George,  showing  him  a  packet  tied  with  a  ribbon. 

"  You  see,  these  are  your  letters.   They  never  leave  me." 

George,  with  visible  satisfaction,  cried:  "All?  have 
you  kept  all  ?  " 

"  Yes,  all.  I  have  even  the  notes — even  the  telegrams. 
The  only  one  missing  is  the  little  note  which  I  threw  into 
the  fire  to  prevent  its  falling  into  my  husband's  hands. 
But  I  saved  the  burnt  fragments ;  you  can  still  read  a  few 
words." 

"  Let  me  see,  will  you?  "  said  George. 

But,  with  a  jealous  movement,  she  hid  the  package. 
Then,  as  George  advanced  towards  her  with  a  smile,  she 
fled  into  the  adjoining  room. 

"  No,  no;  you  shall  see  nothing.     I  won't  let  you." 

She  refused,  partly  in  jest,  partly  too  because,  having 
always  guarded  them  preciously  as  a  hidden  treasure,  with 
pride  and  fear,  it  was  repugnant  to  her  to  show  them  even 
to  him  who  had  written  them. 


THE   PAST.  51 

"  Let  me  see  them,  I  beg  of  you.  I  am  so  curious  to 
reread  my  letters  of  two  years  ago.  What  did  I  write 
you  ? ' ' 

"Words  of  fire." 

"  Please  let  me  see  them." 

.  She  finally  consented,  laughing,  vanquished  by  her  friend's 
persuasive  caresses. 

"  Let  us  wait  at  least  until  the  tea  is  brought;  then  we 
will  reread  them  together.  Shall  I  light  a  fire  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  it  is  almost  hot  to-day." 

It  was  a  cloudless  day,  with  silvery  reflections  diffused 
through  the  inert  atmosphere.  The  waning  day  was  soft- 
ened in  its  passage  through  the  gauze  curtains.  Fragrant 
violets,  gathered  at  the  Villa  Cesarini,  had  already  perfumed 
the  entire  chamber.  Someone  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Here  is  Pancrazio,"   said  Hippolyte. 

The  worthy  domestic,  Pancrazio,  brought  in  his  inex- 
haustible tea,  and  his  inextinguishable  smile.  He  placed 
the  tea-things  on  the  table,  promised  something  good  for 
dinner,  and  withdrew  with  light  and  elastic  steps.  All 
bald  as  he  was,  he  preserved  a  juvenile  air.  Extraordinarily 
obliging,  he  had,  like  certain  Japanese  gods,  eyes  that  were 
laughing,  long,  narrow,  and  somewhat  oblique. 

"  Pancrazio  is  more  amusing  than  his  tea,"  said  George. 

In  fact,  the  tea  had  no  aroma,  but  the  accessories  lent  it 
a  strange  taste.  The  sugar-bowl  and  cups  had  a  form  and 
capacity  never  before  seen ;  the  tea-service  was  decorated 
with  the  history  of  an  amorous  pastoral ;  the  plate,  garnished 
with  small  slices  of  lemon,  bore  on  its  centre  a  rhymed 
enigma,  done  in  black  letters. 

Hippolyte  poured  out  the  tea,  and  the  cups  steamed  like 
censers.  Then  she  untied  the  package  !  The  letters  ap- 
peared, properly  classified,  divided  into  small  bundles. 


52  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  What  a  quantity  !  "  cried  George. 

"  There  are  not  so  many;  only  two  hundred  and  ninety- 
four.  And  in  two  years,  dear  one,  there  are  seven  hundred 
and  thirty  days." 

They  both  smiled,  sat  down  side  by  side  near  a  table, 
and  began  to  read.  In  the  presence  of  these  documents  of 
his  love,  George  felt  come  over  him  a  strange  emotion — 
an  emotion  delicate  yet  strong.  The  first  letters  perplexed 
him. 

Such  or  such  an  extreme  state  of  mind,  of  which  the  let- 
ters bore  the  imprint,  at  first  seemed  to  him  incomprehen- 
sible. The  lyric  flight  of  such  and  such  a  phrase  filled  him 
almost  with  stupor.  The  violence  and  tumult  of  his  early 
passion  caused  in  him  a  sort  of  terror,  by  contrast  with  the 
calm  which  possessed  him  now,  in  this  modest  and  quiet 
house. 

One  of  the  letters  said  :  "  How  my  heart  sighed  for  you 
that  night !  A  gloomy  anguish  overwhelmed  me,  even  dur- 
ing the  short  intervals  of  slumber;  and  I  reopened  my 
eyes  in  order  to  escape  the  phantoms  .which  rose  from  the 
depths  of  my  soul.  I  have,  now  but  one  thought — only 
one  thought,  which  tortures  me — that  you  might  go  far 
away  from  me.  Never,  no,  never,  has  this  possibility 
pierced  my  soul  with  a  more  maddening  pain  and  terror. 
At  this  moment  I  have  the  certitude,  the  positive,  clear, 
evident  certitude,  that  without  you  life  for  me  is  an  impos- 
sibility. When  I  think  that  I  might  lose  you,  the  day 
becomes  suddenly  dark — the  sunlight  becomes  odious  to 
me,  the  earth  appears  to  me  like  a  bottomless  tomb,  I  enter 
a  state  of  death."  Another  letter,  written  after  Hippo- 
lyte's  departure,  read  :  "  I  make  an  enormous  effort  to  hold 
my  pen.  I  have  no  more  energy,  no  will.  I  succumb  to 
such  discouragement  that  the  only  sensation  which  remains 


THE  pAst.  53 

to  me  of  my  external  existence  is  an  insupportable  loath- 
ing of  life.  The  day  is  gray,  suffocating,  heavy  as  lead ;  a 
day  to  kill  in,  so  to  speak.  The  hours  pass  with  inexo- 
rable slowness,  and  my  misery  grows,  second  by  second, 
always  more  horrible  and  more  savage.  It  seems  to  me 
that  at  the  bottom  of  my  being  are  pools  of  stagnant  water, 
dead,  and  deadly.  Is  this  a  physical  or  moral  suffering  ? 
I  do  not  know.  I  live  on,  stupid  and  inert  beneath  a 
burden  which  crushes  me,  without  killing  me."  Another 
letter  read  :  "  At  last,  to-day,  at  four  o'clock,  when  almost 
hopeless,  I  have  received  your  reply.  I  have  read  and 
reread  it  a  thousand  times,  to  find  between  your  words  the 
inexpressible — what  you  could  not  express — your  soul's 
secret,  something  more  alive  and  sweeter  than  the  words 
written  on  the  soulless  paper.  I  am  possessed  with  a 
terrible  desire  for  you." 

So  the  love-letters  cried  and  groaned,  on  the  table  covered 
with  a  table-cloth,  and  loaded  with  rustic  cups  in  which  an 
innocent  infusion  peacefully  steamed. 

"You  remember,"  said  Hippolyte.  "It  was  the  first 
time  that  I  left  Rome,  and  only  for  fifteen  days." 

George  was  absorbed  in  the  memories  of  his  mad  infatua- 
tion ;  he  sought  to  revive  it  within  him,  and  to  understand 
it.  But  the  environing  comfort  was  unfavorable  for  his 
internal  effort. 

The  sensation  of  this  comfort  imprisoned  his  soul,  en- 
veloping it  loosely.  The  veiled  sunlight,  the  hot  drink, 
the  perfume  of  the  violets,  the  contact  of  Hippolyte, 
benumbed  him.  "  Am  I,  then,  so  far  from  the  ardor  of 
former  days  ?  "  he  thought.  "  No,  because  during  her  last 
absence  my  anguish  was  not  less  cruel."  But  he  did  not 
succeed  in  filling  the  interval  between  the  /  of  long  ago 
and  the  /of  to-day. 


54  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

In  spite  of  all,  he  could  no  longer  identify  himself  with 
the  same  man  of  whom  those  written  phrases  attested  such 
consternation  and  despair;  he  felt  that  these  effusions  of  his 
love  had  become  strangers  to  him,  and  he  also  felt  all  the 
emptiness  of  the  words.  These  letters  resembled  the  epi- 
taphs which  one  reads  in  cemeteries.  Just  as  the  epitaphs 
give  a  coarse,  false  idea  of  the  dead,  so  these  letters 
represented  inaccurately  the  divers  conditions  of  the  soul 
through  which  his  love  had  passed.  He  knew  well  the 
singular  fever  which  seizes  a  lover  when  writing  a  love-letter. 
In  the  heat  of  this  fever,  all  the  different  waves  of  sentiment 
are  agitated  and  mixed  in  a  confused  turmoil.  The  lover 
does  not  know  precisely  what  he  wishes  to  express,  and  he 
is  embarrassed  by  the  material  insufficiency  of  the  terms  of 
endearment ;  so  he  gives  up  trying  to  describe  his  internal 
passion  such  as  it  is,  and  attempts  to  express  its  intensity 
by  the  exaggeration  of  the  phrases  and  by  the  employment 
of  vulgar  rhetorical  effects.  This  is  the  reason  why  all 
amorous  correspondences  resemble  each  other,  and  why  the 
language  of  the  most  exalted  passion  is  almost  as  poor  as 
jargon. 

"In  these  letters,"  thought  George,  "all  is  violence, 
excess,  convulsion.  But  where  are  my  delicate  feelings? 
Where  my  exquisite  and  complex  melancholies  ?  Where 
my  profound  and  sinuous  sorrows,  in  which  my  soul  went 
astray  as  in  an  inextricable  labyrinth  ?  "  He  now  had  the 
regret  to  perceive  that  his  letters  lacked  the  rarest  qualities 
of  his  mind — those  which  he  had  always  cultivated  with  the 
greatest  care.  In  the  course  of  his  reading,  he  began  to 
skip  the  long  passages  of  pure  eloquence,  and  sought  in- 
stead the  indication  of  particulars — the  details  of  events 
that  had  occurred — the  allusions  to  memorable  episodes. 

He  found  in  one  letter:    "Towards  six  o'clock  I  en- 


THE   PAtfT.  55 

tered  mechanically  the  usual  place,  the  Morteo  Garden, 
where  I  had  seen  you  so  many  evenings.  The  thirty-five 
minutes  that  preceded  the  exact  hour  of  your  departure  were 
a  torture  for  me.  You  left,  yes,  you  left  without  my  hav- 
ing been  able  to  bid  you  good-by,  to  cover  your  face  with 
kisses,  to  repeat  to  you  once  more,  '  Don't  forget !  don't 
forget  ! '  Towards  eleven  o'clock  a  kind  of  instinct  made 
me  turn  round.  Your  husband  entered  with  his  friend, 
and  the  lady  who  usually  accompanies  them.  Without  any 
doubt,  they  had  come  back  from  seeing  you  home.  I  had 
then  such  a  cruel  spasm  of  pain  that  I  was  soon  forced  to 
rise  and  go  out.  The  presence  of  these  three  persons,  who 
spoke  and  laughed  as  on  other  evenings,  as  if  nothing  new 
had  happened,  exasperated  me.  Their  presence  was  for  me 
the  visible  and  indubitable  proof  that  you  were  gone, 
irremissibly  gone." 

He  thought  over  more  of  the  summer  evenings,  when  he 
had  seen  Hippolyte  seated  at  a  table,  between  her  husband 
and  a  captain  of  infantry,  opposite  to  a  little,  insignificant 
woman.  He  aid  not  know  any  of  these  three  persons,  but 
he  suffered  at  each  of  their  gestures,  at  each  of  their  atti- 
tudes, and  at  all  that  was  vulgar  in  their  appearance ;  and 
in  imagination  he  pictured  to  himself  the  imbecility  of 
the  talk  to  which  his  refined  mistress  appeared  to  pay 
sustained  attention. 

In  another  letter  he  found  :  "  I  am  in  doubt.  To-day  I 
feel  hostile  towards  you;  I  am  filled  with  a  dull  anger." 

"  That,"  said  Hippolyte,  "  was  the  time  when  I  was  at 
Himini :  August  and  September — what  tempestuous  months 
they  were  !  Do  you  remember  when  you  finally  arrived 
on  the  Don  Juan  ?  ' ' 

"  Here  is  a  letter  written  on  board  ship :  '  To-day  at 
two  o'clock  we  have  anchored  at  Ancona,  having  sailed 


56  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

from  Porto  San  Giorgio.  Your  prayers  and  wishes  have 
sent  us  a  favorable  wind.  Marvellous  sailing,  which  I  will 
recount  to  you.  At  the  break  of  day  we  shall  again  make 
the  offing.  The  Don  Juan  is  the  king  of  coasters.  Your 
flag  floats  from  the  mast-head.  Addio — maybe  till  to- 
morrow. September  2d.'  " 

"We  saw  one  another  again;  but  what  days  of  suffer- 
ing !  Do  you  remember  ?  We  were  watched  incessantly. 
Oh,  that  good  sister !  Do  you  recall  our  visit  to  the 
Temple  of  the  Malatestas  ?  Do  you  remember  our  pil- 
grimage to  the  Church  of  San  Giuliano,  the  evening  before 
your  departure  ?  ' ' 

"  Here  is  another  from  Venice." 

They  read  it  together,  with  equal  palpitation. 

"  Since  the  ninth,  I  am  at  Venice,  sadder  than  ever. 
Venice  stupefies  me.  The  most  radiant  of  dreams  does  not 
equal  in  magnificence  this  dream  of  marble  which  emerges 
from  the  waves  and  blossoms  in  an  illusionary  sky.  I 
am  dying  of  melancholy  and  desire.  Why  are  you  not 
here  ?  Oh  !  if  you  had  come  !  If  you  had  only  executed 
your  former  project !  Maybe  we  should  have  been  able  to 
steal  one  hour  from  espionage ;  and  in  the  treasury  of  our 
souvenirs  we  should  have  counted  one  more,  the  most  divine 
amongst  them  all."  On  another  leaf  they  read  again  :  "  I 
have  a  strange  thought,  which,  from  time  to  time,  pierces  my 
soul  like  a  lightning  flash,  and  disturbs  my  whole  being;  a 
foolish  thought — a  dream.  I  think  that  you  could  come  here, 
suddenly,  alone,  to  be  entirely  mine  !  "  Further  on  again  : 
"  The  beauty  of  Venice  is  the  natural  frame  of  your  beauty. 
The  colors  of  your  complexion,  so  rich  and  warm — all  pale 
amber  and  dull  gold,  in  which  are  mixed  possibly  several 
shades  of  drooping  rose — are  the  ideal  colors  which  har- 
monize the  most  happily  with  the  Venetian  air.  I  do  not 


THE    PAST.  57 

know  how  Catherine  Cornaro,  Queen  of  Cyprus,  looked ; 
but,  I  do  not  know  why,  I  imagine  she  resembled  you." 

"  You  see,"  said  Hippolyte,  "  it  was  a  continual  seduc- 
tion, refined  and  irresistible.  I  suffered  more  than  you  can 
imagine.  Instead  of  sleeping,  I  passed  nights  in  seeking  a 
means  of  going  out  alone,  without  awakening  the  suspicions 
of  my  guests.  I  was  a  prodigy  of  cleverness.  I  no  longer 
know  what  I  did.  When  I  found  myself  alone  with  you  in 
the  gondola,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  that  September  dawn,  I 
did  not  believe  that  it  was  real.  Do  you  recollect  ?  I 
burst  into  sobs,  unable  to  say  a  word  to  you." 

"  But  I — I  was  waiting  for  you.  I  was  sure  that  you 
would  come,  at  any  cost." 

"  And  that  was  the  first  of  our  great  imprudences." 

"  It  is  true." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  murmured  the  young  woman. 
"  Was  it  not  better  so  ?  Was  it  not  better  so,  now  that  I 
belong  to  you  entirely  ?  For  my  part,  I  regret  nothing." 

George  kissed  her  on  the  temple.  She  spoke  for  a  long 
time  of  this  episode,  which  was  one  of  the  most  pleasant 
and  extraordinary  among  their  souvenirs.  They  lived  over 
again,  minute  by  minute,  the  two  days  of  their  secret  stay 
at  the  Hotel  Danieli — two  days  of  oblivion,  supreme  intoxi- 
cation, in  which  it  seemed  as  if  they  had  both  lost  all  notion 
of  the  world,  and  all  consciousness  of  their  previous  being. 

Those  days  had  marked  the  commencement  of  Hippolyte's 
ruin.  The  letters  which  followed  alluded  to  her  first 
trials.  "  When  I  think  that  I  am  the  initial  cause  of  your 
sufferings  and  of  all  your  domestic  troubles,  an  inexpressi- 
ble remorse  torments  me ;  and  in-  order  to  obtain  pardon 
for  the  ill  of  which  I  am  the  cause,  I  want  you  to  know 
the  entire  depth  of  my  passion.  Do  you  know  my  passion  ? 
Are  you  sure  that  my  love  will  be  able  to  repay  you  for  your 


58  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

long  anguish  ?  Are  you  sure  of  it — certain — deeply  con- 
vinced of  it?"  The  ardor  went  on  increasing  page  by 
page.  Then,  from  April  to  July,  there  was  an  obscure 
interval  without  documents.  It  was  during  these  four 
months  that  the  catastrophe  happened.  The  husband,  too 
weak,  not  having  found  any  means  of  conquering  Hippo- 
lyte's  open  and  obstinate  rebellion,  had,  so  to  say,  taken 
flight,  and  left  behind  him  very  much  involved  business 
affairs,  in  which  he  had  sunk  the  greater  part  of  his  for- 
tune. Hippolyte  had  sought  refuge  with  her  mother,  then 
with  her  sister  at  Caronno,  in  a  country-house.  And  then  a 
terrible  malady  from  which  she  had  already  suffered  in  her 
infancy — a  nervous  malady  analogous  to  epilepsy — seized 
upon  her.  The  letters  dated  in  August  spoke  of  it:  "  No, 
you  could  never  conceive  the  fright  that  my  mind  is  in. 
What  tortures  me  above  all  is  the  implacable  lucidity  of 
my  imaginary  vision.  I  see  you  writhing — I  see  your  face 
become  distorted  and  pallid — I  see  your  eyes  roll  hopelessly 
beneath  their  lids ;  I  see  your  hands  shrivelled  and  shrunk, 
and  between  your  fingers  the  curl  of  torn-out  hair;  and, 
whatever  effort  I  make,  I  cannot  succeed  in  dispelling  the 
terrible  vision.  And  then,  I  hear  you  call  me;  I  have 
actually  in  my  ears  the  sound  of  your  voice — a  hoarse  and 
lamentable  sound — the  voice  of  a  person  who  calls  for  help 
without  the  hope  of  being  helped."  A  little  way  further 
on :  "  You  write  me  :  '  If  this  illness  should  seize  me  when 
I  am  in  your  arms  !  No,  no,  I  will  not  see  you  again  !  I 
do  not  wish  to  see  you  again  ! '  Were  you  mad  when  you 
wrote  that  ?  Did  you  think  of  what  you  wrote  ?  It  is  as  if 
you  had  taken  my  life,  as  if  I  could  no  longer  breathe. 
Quick,  another  letter  !  Tell  me  you  will  recover,  that 
you  still  hope,  that  you  want  to  see  me  again.  You  must 
recover.  Do  you  hear,  Hippolyte  ?  You  must  recover," 


THE   PAST.  59 

During  the  convalescence,  the  letters  were  gentle  and 
playful.  "  I  send  you  a  flower  gathered  on  the  sands.  It 
is  a  species  of  wild  lily,  marvellous  when  growing,  and  of 
an  odor  so  penetrating  that  I  often  find  at  the  bottom  of 
the  chalice  an  insect  in  a  swoon  of  intoxication.  The 
whole  coast  is  covered  with  these  passionate  lilies,  which, 
beneath  the  torrid  sun,  on  the  broiling  sand,  flower  in  one 
minute,  and  only  live  a  few  hours.  See  how  charming  this 
flower  is,  even  when  dead  !  See  how  delicate  it  is,  and 
fine,  and  feminine  !  " 

Up  to  the  month  of  November  the  letters  followed  one 
another  without  interruption;  but,  little  by  little,  they 
became  bitter,  full  of  suspicions,  doubts,  reproaches. 

"  How  far  you  have  gone  from  me  !  I  am  tortured  by 
something  else  than  the  chagrin  of  mere  material  separa- 
tion. It  seems  to  me  that  your  soul  has  also  left  and 
abandoned  me.  Your  fragrance  makes  others  happy.  To 
look  at  you,  to  hear  you,  is  not  that — to  enjoy  you?  Write 
to  me;  tell  me  that  you  belong  entirely  to  me,  in  all  your 
acts,  in  all  your  thoughts,  and  that  you  desire  me,  and  that 
you  regret  me,  and  that,  separated  from  me,  you  find  no 
beauty  in  any  instant  of  life."  Further  on:  "I  think,  I 
think,  and  my  thought  goads  me ;  and  the  sting  of  this 
thought  causes  in  me  an  abominable  suffering.  At  times  I 
am  seized  with  a  frenzied  desire  to  pluck  from  my  throbbing 
temples  this  impalpable  thing,  which  is,  however,  stronger 
and  more  inflexible  than  a  dart.  To  breathe  is  an  insup- 
portable fatigue  for  me,  and  the  throbbing  of  my  arteries 
goes  through  me  as  would  the  sound  of  hammer  blows  that  I 
might  be  condemned  to  hear.  Is  that  love  ?  Oh,  no.  It 
is  a  kind  of  monstrous  infirmity  which  can  blossom  only  in 
me,  for  my  joy  and  my  martyrdom.  I  please  myself  by 
belieying  that  no  other  human  creature  has  ever  felt  as  J 


60  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

do."  Further  on  :  "  Never,  no,  never,  shall  I  have  complete 
peace  and  complete  security.  I  could  be  content  only  on 
one  condition — that  I  absorbed  all,  all  your  being;  that 
you  and  I  no  longer  were  more  than  a  single  being ;  that  I 
lived  your  life  ;  that  I  thought  your  thoughts.  Or,  at  least, 
I  would  wish  that  your  senses  were  closed  to  all  sensations 
that  did  not  originate  in  me.  I  am  a  poor,  ill  patient. 
My  days  are  but  a  long  agony.  I  have  rarely  desired  them 
to  end,  as  much  as  I  desire  and  pray  for  it  now.  The  sun 
is  about  to  set,  and  the  night  which  descends  on  my  soul 
envelops  me  in  a  thousand  horrors.  The  shadows  issue 
from  every  corner  of  my  room  and  advance  towards  me  as 
would  a  live  person  whose  footsteps  and  breathing  I  could 
hear,  whose  hostile  attitude  I  '  could  see.'  " 

To  await  Hippolyte's  return,  George  had  returned  to 
Rome  in  the  first  days  of  November ;  and  the  letters  dated 
at  that  time  alluded  to  a  very  unhappy  and  dismal  episode. 
"  You  wrote  me  :  '  I  have  had  great  difficulty  in  remaining 
true  to  you  ! '  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  What  were  the 
terrible  events  which  have  upset  you  ?  My  God  !  How  you 
are  changed  !  It  makes  me  suffer  inexpressibly,  and  my 
pride  is  irritated  at  my  suffering.  Between  my  eyebrows  is 
a  furrow,  deep  as  the  cleft  of  a  wound,  in  which  is  heaped 
my  repressed  anger,  in  which  gathers,  all  the  bitterness  of 
my  doubts,  my  suspicions,  my  disgusts.  I  believe  that  even 
your  kisses  would  not  suffice  to  rid  me  of  it.  Your  letters, 
trembling  with  desires,  disturb  me.  I  am  not  grateful  to 
you  for  them.  For  two  or  three  days,  I  have  something 
against  you  in  my  heart.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is.  Per- 
haps a  presentiment  ?  Perhaps  a  divination  ?  " 

While  he  read,  George  suffered  as  from  a  wound  re- 
opened. Hippolyte  would  have  liked  to  stop  him  from 
continuing.  She  remembered  that  evening  when  her  bus- 


THE   PAST.  6l 

band  had  called  unexpectedly  at  the  house  in  Caronno, 
with  a  cold,  calm  face,  but  with  the  look  of  a  madman, 
declaring  that  he  had  come  to  take  her  back ;  she  recalled 
the  moment  when  she  was  alone  with  him,  face  to  face,  in 
an  out-of-the-way  room,  the  window  curtains  of  which  were 
blown  about  by  the  wind — in  which  the  light  abruptly  flared 
up  and  then  decreased — to  which  the  moaning  of  the  trees 
was  borne  up  from  below;  she  remembered  the  silent, 
savage  fight  sustained  then  against  that  man  who  had  sud- 
denly clasped  her  —  horror  !  —  in  order  to  take  her  by 
force. 

"Enough!  enough!"  she  said,  drawing  George's  head 
to  her.  "  Enough  !  Don't  let  us  read  any  more." 

But  he  wanted  to  continue.  "  I  cannot  understand  the 
reappearance  of  that  man,  and  I  cannot  prevent  a  feeling  of 
anger  which  is  directed  even  at  you,  too.  But,  to  spare  you 
pain,  I  will  abstain  from  writing  you  my  thoughts  on  this 
subject.  They  are  bitter  and  gloomy  thoughts.  I  feel  that 
my  affection  is  poisoned  for  some  time.  It  were  better,  I 
think,  if  you  never  saw  me  again.  If  you  wish  to  avoid 
useless  pain,  do  not  return  now.  Now  I  am  not  in  a  good 
frame  of  mind.  My  soul  loves  you  to  adoration ;  but  my 
thought  rends  and  sullies  you.  It  is  a  contrast  which 
recommences  incessantly,  and  which  will  never  end."  In 
the  next  day's  letter  he  wrote  :  "  A  pain,  an  atrocious  pain, 
intolerable,  never  felt  before  !  O  Hippolyte,  come  back  ! 
come  back  !  I  want  to  see  you,  to  speak  to  you,  to  caress 
you.  I  love  you  more  than  ever.  Yet,  spare  me  the  sight 
of  your  bruises.  I  am  incapable  of  thinking  of  them  with- 
out fear  and  without  anger.  I  feel  that,  if  I  saw  the  marks 
impressed  in  your  flesh  by  the  hands  of  that  man,  my  heart 
would  break.  It  is  horrible  !  " 

"  Enough,  George  !  don't  let  us  read  any  more  !  "  begged 


6*  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Hippolyte  again,  taking  the  loved  one's  head  between  her 
hands,  and  kissing  his  eyes.     "  Please,  George  !  " 

She  succeeded  in  drawing  him  away  from  the  table.  He 
smiled  that  indefinable  smile,  which  sometimes  invalids 
have  when  they  yield  to  the  entreaties  of  others,  knowing 
full  well  that  the  remedy  is  late  and  useless. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ON  Good  Friday  evening  they  started  on  their  return  to 
Rome. 

Before  their  departure,  about  five  o'clock,  they  took  tea. 
They  were  taciturn.  The  simple  existence  they  had  led 
in  this  old  house  appeared  extraordinarily  beautiful  and 
desirable  to  them,  now  it  was  about  to  end.  The  intimacy 
of  the  modest  lodging  seemed  sweeter  and  more  profound  to 
them.  The  places  where  they  had  promenaded  their  mel- 
anchoy  and  their  tenderness  were  illuminated  by  ideal  lights. 
It  was,  then,  still  another  fragment  of  their  love  and  of 
their  being  that  fell,  annihilated,  into  the  abyss  of  time. 

"  That,  too,  is  past,"  said  George. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  said  Hippolyte.  "  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  could  no  longer  sleep  anywhere  than  on  your  heart !  " 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  communicating  each 
other's  emotion,  feeling  the  rising  wave  choking  their  throats. 
They  remained  silent;  they  listened  to  the  regular  and 
monotonous  sound  made  by  the  pavers  beating  the  pavement. 
But  the  irritating  noise  augmented  their  uneasiness. 

"That  is  insupportable,"  said  George,  rising. 

The  measured  blows  revived  in  him  the  sentiment  of  the 
flight  of  time,  which  he  had  already  so  strongly  felt ;  they 
inspired  in  him  that  sort  of  anxious  terror  which  he  had 
already  often  experienced  when  listening  to  the  oscillations 
of  a  pendulum.  And  yet,  on  the  preceding  days,  had  not 
the  same  noise  lulled  him  into  a  vague  state  of  comfort  ? 


64  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

He  thought :  "  In  two  or  three  hours  we  shall  separate.  I 
shall  recommence  my  usual  life,  which  is  only  a  series  of 
petty  miseries.  My  habitual  illness  will  inevitably  seize 
upon  me  again.  Moreover,  I  know  the  troubles  that  Spring 
revives  in  me.  I  shall  suffer  without  cease.  And  I  have 
already  a  premonition  that  one  of  my  most  pitiless  tor- 
mentors will  be  the  idea  that  Exili  has  put  in  my  head.  If 
Hippolyte  wished  to  cure  me,  could  she  ?  Maybe,  at  least 
partly.  Why  should  she  not  come  with  me  to  some  lonely 
place,  not  for  a  week,  but  for  a  very  long  time  ?  She  is 
adorable  in  intimacy,  full  of  trifling  kind  attentions  and 
of  childish  graces.  Maybe,  by  her  constant  presence,  she 
would  succeed  in  curing  me,  or  at  least  in  making  me  take 
life  more  lightly." 

He  stopped  before  Hippolyte,  took  her  two  hands  in  his, 
and  asked  :  "  Have  you  been  very  happy  during  these  few 
days  ?  Answer  me." 

His  voice  was  agitated  and  persuasive.  "  I  was  never  so 
happy  before,"  she  replied. 

Feeling  a  deep  sincerity  in  this  answer,  George  pressed 
her  hands  with  force,  and  continued  :  "  Will  it  be  possible 
for  you  to  go  back  to  your  every-day  existence  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered;  "  I  do  not  look  before 
me.  You  know  all  is  lost." 

She  lowered  her  eyes.  George  seized  her  in  his  arms, 
passionately. 

"  You  love  me,  do  you  not  ?  I  am  the  only  aim  of  your 
existence ;  you  see  only  me  in  your  future. ' ' 

With  an  unexpected  smile,  which  raised  her  long  eye- 
lashes, she  said  :  "  Yes,  you  know  it." 

He  added  once  more  in  a  low  voice,  his  face  bowed 
down  :  "  You  know  my  malady." 

She  seemed  to  have  guessed  her  lover's  thought.     As  if 


THE   PAST.  65 

in  confidence,  in  a  whispering  voice  which  seemed  to  draw 
closer  the  circle  in  which  they  breathed  and  palpitated 
together,  she  asked,  "  What  can  I  do  to  cure  you  ?  " 

They  were  silent,  clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  But  in 
the  silence  their  two  souls  dwelt  and  decided  upon  the 
same  thing. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  cried,  at  length.  "  Let  us  go  to 
some  unknown  country;  let  us  stay  there  all  Spring,  all 
Summer,  as  long  as  we  can — that  will  cure  me." 

Without  hesitation  she  replied :  "  I  am  ready.  I  be- 
long to  you." 

They  disengaged  themselves,  comforted.  The  hour  of 
departure  had  come ;  they  strapped  the  last  valise.  Hip- 
polyte  gathered  all  her  flowers,  already  withered  in  the 
glasses :  the  violets  of  the  Villa  Cesarini,  the  cyclamens, 
the  anemones,  and  the  periwinkles  of  the  Chigi  Park,  the 
simple  roses  of  the  Castel-Gandolfo,  a  branch  of  an  almond- 
tree  gathered  in  the  neighborhood  of  Diana's  Baths,  on  their 
way  home  from  the  Emissary.  These  flowers  could  have 
told  all  their  idylls.  Oh,  the  frolicsome  course  in  the 
park,  in  descending  a  steep  incline,  on  the  dry  leaves  in 
which  their  feet  sank  to  the  ankles  !  She  shouted  and 
laughed,  pricked  on  the  legs  by  the  sharp  nettles  through 
the  fine  stockings ;  and  then,  before  her,  George  beat  down 
the  sharp  stems  with  blows  of  his  cane,  so  that  she  could 
trample  upon  them  without  danger.  Very  green  and  innu- 
merable nettles  adorned  the  Diana's  Baths,  the  mysterious 
cave  in  which  favorable  echoes  were  transformed  into  the 
music  of  slowly  dropping  water.  And,  from  the  depths  of 
the  humid  shadow,  they  saw  the  country  all  covered  with 
almond-trees  and  silver-and-pink  peach  trees,  infinitely  de- 
lightful beneath  the  light-green  pallor  of  the  limpid  waters. 
So  many  flowers,  so  many  souvenirs  ! 
5 


66  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

"  See,"  she  said,  showing  George  a  ticket,  "  it  is  the 
ticket  for  Segni-Paliano  !  I  shall  keep  it." 

Pancrazio  knocked  at  the  door.  He  brought  George  the 
receipted  bill.  In  the  emotion  produced  by  the  signer's 
generosity,  he  was  all  confused  in  his  expressions  of  thanks 
and  good  wishes.  Finally,  he  drew  two  visiting-cards  from 
his  pocket,  and  offered  them  to  the  signer  and  signora  to 
recall  to  them  his  humble  name,  begging  to  be  excused  for 
his  boldness. 

Scarcely  had  he  retired  than  the  false  newly  wed  couple 
began  to  laugh.  The  cards  bore,  in  pompous  letters,  PAN- 
CRAZIO PETRELLA. 

"  I  will  keep  them  too  as  a  remembrance,"  said  Hippo- 
lyte. 

Pancrazio  knocked  a  second  time  at  the  door.  He 
brought  signora  a  gift — four  or  five  magnificent  oranges. 
His  eyes  sparkled  in  his  rubicund  visage.  He  warned  them, 
"  It  is  time  to  go  down." 

In  descending  the  staircase  the  two  lovers  felt  a  certain 
sadness  and  a  sort  of  fear  fall  upon  them,  as  if  on  leaving 
this  peaceful  asylum  they  were  about  to  face  some  unknown 
peril.  The  old  hotel-keeper  took  leave  of  them  at  the  door, 
saying  with  regret,  "  I  had  such  beautiful  larks  for  this 
evening." 

George  answered,  with  a  contraction  of  his  lips  :  "  We 
will  come  again  soon — we  will  come  again  soon." 

While  they  proceeded  to  the  station  the  sun  sank  below 
the  sea,  at  the  extreme  horizon  of  the  Roman  campagna 
fiery-colored  amidst  the  thick  mists.  At  Cecchina  it  began 
to  drizzle.  When  they  separated,  Rome,  on  that  Good 
Friday  evening,  humid  and  foggy,  appeared  to  *hem  like  a 
city  in  which  one  could  only  die. 


II. 

THE  PATERNAL  ROOF. 

CHAPTER   I. 

ABOUT  the  end  of  April,  Hippolyte  left  for  Milan,  where 
her  sister,  whose  mother-in-law  was  dying,  had  called  her. 
George  Aurispa  had  arranged  to  leave  also,  in  search  of  a 
new  and  unfrequented  place.  Towards  the  middle  of 
May  they  were  to  meet  again. 

But,  just  at  that  time,  George  received  an  alarming  let- 
ter from  his  mother.  She  was  unhappy,  almost  in  despair. 
In  consequence,  he  could  no  longer  defer  his  return  to  the 
paternal  house. 

When  he  became  convinced  that  his  duty  urged  him  to 
hasten  at  once  where  there  was  real  sorrow,  he  was  seized  by 
feelings  of  anguish  which  overcame  by  degrees  his  first 
sentiment  of  filial  piety,  and  he  felt  rise  within  him  a 
sharp  irritation  which  increased  in  acuteness  as  the  scenes 
of  the  coming  conflict,  clearer  and  more  numerous,  surged 
through  his  conscience.  And  this  irritation  soon  became 
so  acute  that  it  dominated  him  entirely,  persistently  nour- 
ished by  the  material  annoyances  of  the  departure,  by  the 
heart-breaking  farewells. 

The  separation  was  more  cruel  than  ever.  George  passed 
through  a  period  of  the  most  intense  sensibility;  the  ex- 


68  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

asperation  of  all  his  nerves  kept  him  in  a  constant  state  of 
uneasiness.  He  appeared  to  no  longer  believe  in  the 
promised  happiness,  the  future  peace.  When  Hippolyte 
bade  him  good -by,  he  asked  : 

"  Shall  we  meet  again  ?  " 

When  he  kissed  her  lips  for  the  last  time,  as  she  passed 
through  the  door,  he  noticed  that  she  lowered  a  black  veil 
over  the  kiss,  and  this  insignificant  trifle  caused  him  pro- 
found distress,  assumed  in  his  imagination  the  importance 
of  a  sinister  presentiment. 

On  arriving  at  Guardiagrele,  at  his  birthplace,  under  the 
paternal  roof,  he  was  so  exhausted  that,  when  he  embraced 
his  mother,  he  began  to  cry  like  a  child.  But  neither 
the  embrace  nor  his  tears  comforted  him.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  a  stranger  in  his  own  home — that  he  was 
visiting  a  family  which  was  not  his  own.  This  singular  sen- 
sation of  isolation,  already  experienced  under  other  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  his  kin,  returned  now  more 
vivid  and  more  importunate  than  ever.  A  thousand  little 
particulars  of  the  family  life  irritated  him,  hurt  him.  Dur- 
ing lunch,  during  dinner,  certain  silences,  during  which 
only  the  sounds  of  the  forks  were  heard,  made  him  feel 
horribly  uncomfortable.  Certain  refinements,  to  which  he 
was  accustomed,  received  every  moment  a  sudden  and  pain- 
ful shock.  The  air  of  discord,  hostility,  and  open  warfare 
which  weighed  heavily  on  this  household  almost  choked 
him. 

The  very  evening  of  his  arrival,  his  mother  had  taken 
him  aside  to  recount  her  troubles  and  her  ailments,  to  tell 
him  about  the  bad  behavior  and  dissoluteness  of  her  hus- 
band. In  a  voice  trembling  with  anger,  looking  at  him 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  had  said  to  him : 

"  Your  father  is  an  infamous  man  !  " 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  69 

Her  eyelids  were  somewhat  swollen,  reddened  by  the 
large  tears ;  her  cheeks  were  hollow ;  her  whole  person  bore 
the  signs  of  long-endured  suffering. 

"  He  is  an  infamous  man  !     A  wretch  !  " 

As  he  went  upstairs  to  his  bedroom,  George  still  had 
the  sound  of  her  voice  in  his  ears ;  he  saw  before  him  his 
mother's  attitude;  he  continued  to  hear  the  ignominious 
accusations  against  the  man  whose  blood  ran  in  his  veins. 
And  his  heart  was  so  heavy  that  he  believed  he  could  carry 
it  no  longer.  But,  suddenly,  a  furious  rapture  created  a 
diversion,  carried  his  thoughts  back  to  his  absent  mistress ; 
and  he  felt  that  he  owed  his  mother  no  thanks  for  reciting 
to  him  all  those  woes — he  felt  he  would  have  liked  much 
better  not  to  know  of,  or  in  any  way  to  occupy  himself 
with,  anything  but  his  love,  to  suffer  from  nothing  but  his 
love. 

He  entered  his  room,  and  locked  himself  in.  The  May 
moon  illuminated  the  windows  of  the  balconies.  Thirsty 
for  the  night  air,  he  opened  the  windows,  leaned  on  the 
balustrade,  drank  in  with  deep  breaths  the  cool  air  of  the 
night.  An  infinite  peace  reigned  below  in  the  valley ;  and 
the  Majella,  still  all  white  with  snow,  seemed  to  deepen 
the  azure  by  the  solemn  simplicity  of  its  outlines.  Guardi- 
agrele,  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  slept  around  the  Santa  Maria 
Maggiore  A  single  window  lit  up,  in  the  house  opposite, 
made  a  spot  of  yellowish  light. 

He  forgot  his  recent  wound.  Before  the  splendor  of  the 
night  he  had  but  one  single  thought — "  This  is  a  night 
lost  to  happiness  !  " 

He  began  to  listen.  Amidst  the  silence,  he  heard  the 
stamping  of  a  horse  in  a  neighboring  stable,  then  a 
feeble  tinkling  of  small  bells.  His  eyes  wandered  to  the 
lighted  window;  and  in  the  rectangle  of  light  he  saw 


70  THE   TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

shadows  flit,  as  of  persons  in  active  motion  within.  He 
listened  intently.  He  believed  he  heard  a  light  knock  at 
his  door.  He  went  to  open  it,  although  not  sure. 

It  was  his  aunt  Joconda.     She  entered. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  me  ?  "  she  said,  kissing  him. 

In  fact,  not  having  seen  her  when  he  arrived,  he  had  not 
thought  of  her.  He  excused  himself,  took  her  hand,  made 
her  sit  down,  spoke  to  her  in  an  affectionate  tone. 

Aunt  Joconda,  his  father's  eldest  sister,  was  almost  sixty. 
She  limped  as  the  result  of  a  fall,  and  she  was  rather  short, 
but  an  unhealthy  stoutness,  flabby,  pallid.  Given  entirely 
to  religious  practices,  she  lived  by  herself  in  her  room,  on 
the  top  floor  of  the  house,  without  having  almost  any  con- 
nection with  the  family,  neglected,  but  little  loved,  consid- 
ered as  being  weak-minded.  Her  little  world  was  full  of 
consecrated  images,  relics,  emblems,  symbols ;  she  did 
nothing  else  but  follow  religious  exercises,  doze  in  the  mo- 
notony of  her  prayers,  endure  the  cruel  tortures  caused  by 
her  gormandizing.  She  had  a  greedy  passion  for  confection- 
ery, and  all  other  nourishment  she  had  no  taste  for.  But 
often  she  lacked  sweets  ;  and  George  was  her  favorite,  be- 
cause, each  time  he  came  to  Guardiagrele,  he  brought  her  a 
box  of  bon-bons  and  a  box  of  rossolis. 

"  So,"  she  said  in  a  mumbling  voice  from  between  her 
almost  empty  gums,  "  so  you  have  come  back — eh  !  eh ! 
You  have  come  back " 

She  regarded  him  with  a  sort  of  timidity,  finding  nothing 
else  to  say ;  but  a  manifest  expectancy  showed  in  her  eyes. 
And  George  felt  his  heart  contract  with  anxious  pity. 
"  This  miserable  creature,"  thought  he,  "  has  sunk  to  the 
lowest  degradations  of  human  nature ;  lam  bound  to  this 
poor  bigoted  gormand  by  ties  of  blood;  I  am  of  her 
race  I" 


THE   PATERNAL   ROOF.  Jl 

A  visible  uneasiness  had  taken  possession  of  Aunt  Joconda ; 
a  look  that  was  almost  impudent  came  into  her  eyes.  She 
repeated : 

"So— so." 

"  Oh  !  forgive  me,  Aunt  Joconda,"  he  said  at  last,  with 
a  painful  effort.  "  I  forgot  to  bring  you  some  candy." 

The  old  woman  changed  countenance,  as  if  she  were  on 
the  point  of  fainting ;  her  eyes  became  dim ;  she  stuttered  : 
"  It  doesn't  matter " 

"  But  to-morrow  I  will  get  you  some,"  added  George 
consolingly,  yet  with  a  sinking  heart.  "  I  will  write " 

The  old  woman  became  livelier.  She  said  very  rapidly : 
"  You  know,  at  the  Ursulines  .  .  .  it's  to  be  had." 

A  silence  followed,  during  which  Aunt  Joconda  had, 
without  doubt,  a  foretaste  of  the  morrow's  delicacies ; 
because  her  toothless  mouth  gave  forth  the  little  sound  that 
one  makes  in  re-swallowing  the  superabundant  saliva. 

"  My  poor  George  !  Ah  !  if  I  had  not  my  George  !  You 
see,  what  has  occurred  in  this  house  is  a  punishment  from 
heaven.  But  go,  boy,  go  out  on  the  balcony  and  look  at  the 
vases.  I — I  am  the  only  one  who  waters  them ;  I  always 
think  of  George ;  formerly,  I  had  Demetrius,  but  now  I  have 
no  one  but  you. ' ' 

She  rose,  took  her  nephew  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  to 
one  of  the  balconies.  She  showed  him  the  flowering  vases ; 
she  plucked  a  bergamot  leaf  and  held  it  out  to  him.  She 
stooped  down  to  feel  if  the  earth  were  dry. 

"Wait!"  she  said. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Aunt  Joconda  ?  " 

"Wait!" 

She  went  off  with  her  limping  gait,  left  the  room,  re- 
turned a  minute  later  with  a  pitcher  full  of  water  which  she 
could  scarcely  carry. 


72  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  But,  aunt,  why  do  you  do  this  work  ?  Why  give  your- 
self this  trouble  ?" 

"  The  vases  require  to  be  watered.  If  I  did  not  think  of 
them,  who  would  ?  " 

She  sprinkled  the  vases.  Her  respiration  was  heavy,  and 
the  hoarse  panting  of  her  senile  chest  distressed  the  young 
man. 

"That  will  do!  That  will  do!"  he  said,  taking  the 
pitcher  from  her  hands. 

They  stayed  on  the  balcony,  while  the  water  from  the 
vases  dropped  into  the  street  with  a  light  splash. 

"  What  is  that  lighted  window  ?  "  asked  George,  to  break 
the  silence. 

"Oh,"  replied  the  old  woman.  "  It  is  Don  Defendente 
Scioli,  who  is  dying." 

And  both  watched  the  moving  shadows  in  the  rectangle 
of  yellow  light.  The  old  woman  began  to  shiver  in  the  cold 
night  air. 

"  Come  !     Go  to  bed,  Aunt  Joconda." 

He  wanted  to  escort  her  to  her  room,  on  the  floor  above. 
While  following  a  lobby,  they  met  something  which  was 
dragging  itself  heavily  along  the  floor.  It  was  a  tortoise. 
The  old  woman  stopped  to  say :  "  It  is  as  old  as  you  are — 
twenty-five;  and  it  has  become  lame  like  myself.  Your 
father,  with  a  blow  of  his  heel " 

He  remembered  the  plucked  turtle-dove  and  Aunt  Jane, 
and  certain  hours  spent  at  Albano. 

They  arrived  at  the  threshold  of  her  chamber.  A  dis- 
gusting odor  of  sickness  emanated  from  the  interior.  By 
the  feeble  light  of  a  lamp,  one  could  see  the  walls  covered 
with  madonnas  and  crosses,  a  torn  screen,  an  arm-chair 
showing  the  stuffing  and  the  springs. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?  " 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  73 

"  No,  thanks,  Aunt  Joconda;  go  to  bed." 

She  entered  quickly,  then  came  back  to  the  door  with  a 
paper  packet,  which  she  opened  before  George,  and  emptied 
a  little  sugar  on  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"  You  see  ?    It  is  all  I  have  left." 

"  To-morrow,  aunt ;  come,  go  to  bed.     Good  night  1  " 

And  he  left  her,  his  courage  exhausted,  his  stomach  upset, 
his  heart  saddened. 

He  returned  to  his  balcony. 

The  full  moon  was  suspended  in  the  middle  of  the  sky. 
The  Majella,  inert  and  glacial,  resembled  one  of  those  sele- 
nious  promontories  which  the  telescope  has  brought  close  to 
the  earth.  Guardiagrele  slumbered  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tain. The  bergamots  filled  the  air  with  fragrance. 

"Hippolyte!  Hippolyte  !  " 

At  that  hour  of  supreme  anguish,  all  his  soul  went  out 
towards  the  loved  one,  demanding  assistance. 

Suddenly,  from  the  lighted  window,  a  cry  arose  in  the 
silence,  the  cry  of  a  woman.  Other  cries  followed ;  then 
there  was  a  continued  sobbing,  which  rose  and  fell  like  a 
rhythmic  chant.  The  agony  had  ended;  a  soul  had  dis- 
solved itself  into  the  serene  and  funereal  night. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"You  must  help  me,"  said  his  mother.  "You  must 
speak  to  him;  you  must  make  him  listen  to  you.  You  are 
his  first-born.  Yes,  George,  it  is  essential." 

She  continued  to  enumerate  her  husband's  faults,  to 
lay  bare  before  the  son  the  shame  of  the  father.  This 
father  had  for  a  concubine  a  chamber-maid,  formerly  in 
the  service  of  the  family,  a  degraded  and  very  mercenary 
woman ;  it  was  for  her  and  the  children  born  in  adultery  that 
he  dissipated  all  his  fortune,  without  regard  for  anybody — 
careless  of  his  affairs,  neglecting  his  property,  selling  his 
crops  at  a  sacrifice  to  the  first  comer,  in  order  to  obtain 
money.  And  he  went  so  far  that,  sometimes,  through  his 
fault,  the  house  lacked  necessities ;  and  he  refused  to  give 
a  dowry  to  his  younger  sister,  although  she  had  been  engaged 
for  a  long  time ;  and  if  any  observation  was  made  to  him, 
he  responded  by  cries,  insults,  sometimes  even  by  the  most 
brutal  violence. 

"  You  live  far  from  us,  and  do  not  know  in  what  a  hell 
we  live.  You  cannot  even  imagine  the  smallest  part  of  out 
sufferings.  But  you  are  the  eldest.  You  must  speak  to 
him.  Yes,  George,  you  must." 

His  eyes  cast  down,  George  remained  silent;  and  to 
repress  the  exasperation  of  all  his  nerves  in  the  presence  of 
this  unhappiness,  which  disclosed  itself  to  him  in  so  brutal 
a  manner,  he  required  a  prodigious  effort.  What  ?  Was 
this  his  mother  ?  That  contorted  mouth,  so  full  of  bitter- 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  75 

ness,  which  was  contracted  so  sharply  when  she  uttered 
coarse  words,  was  that  his  mother's  mouth  ?  Had  misery 
and  anger  changed  her  so  much  ?  He  raised  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her,  to  see  if  traces  of  the  old-time  gentleness 
still  lingered  on  the  maternal  visage.  How  gentle  he  had 
always  known  this  mother  to  be  formerly  !  What  a  beauti- 
ful and  tender  creature  she  always  was  !  And  how  tenderly 
he  had  loved  her  in  his  childhood,  in  his  adolescence.  In 
those  days  Donna  Silveria  was  tall  and  svelte,  pale  and 
delicate ;  her  hair  was  almost  blond,  her  eyes  black ;  all 
her  person  bore  the  stamp  of  a  noble  race,  for  she  descended 
from  that  Spina  family  which,  like  the  Aurispas,  has  its 
armorial  bearings  sculptured  beneath  the  portal  of  the 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore.  What  an  affectionate  being  she  used 
to  be  !  Why,  therefore,  this  great  change  ?  The  son  was 
distressed  by  all  his  mother's  abrupt  gestures,  at  the  bitter- 
ness of  her  words,  at  all  the  ravages  which  a  rancorous  hate 
had  made  in  her  features ;  and  he  was  distressed  also  to 
see  his  father  covered  with  so  much  ignominy,  to  find  such 
a  terrible  abyss  yawning  between  the  two  beings  to  whom 
he  owed  his  existence.  And  what  an  existence  ! 

"  You  understand,  George  !  "  insisted  his  mother.  "  You 
must  be  energetic.  When  will  you  speak  to  him  ?  Make 
up  your  mind." 

He  heard  her,  and  he  felt  at  the  bottom  of  his  entrails 
the  shock  of  a  thrill  of  horror ;  and  he  said  to  himself : 
' '  Oh !  mother,  demand  of  me  everything,  ask  of  me  the 
most  atrocious  of  sacrifices ;  but  spare  me  this  step,  do  not 
compel  me  to  do  that.  I  am  a  coward."  At  the  thought 
that  he  must  face  his  father,  that  he  must  accomplish  an 
act  of  vigor,  and  of  his  own  will,  an  unconquerable  repug- 
nance arose  from  the  very  roots  of  his  being.  He  would 
prefer  to  have  a  hand  cut  off. 


76  THE   TRIUMPH   OF  DEATH. 

"Very  well,  mother,"  he  replied  gloomily.  "I  will 
speak  to  him.  I  will  wait  for  a  favorable  opportunity." 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  cheeks  as  if  to 
tacitly  demand  forgiveness  for  the  lie ;  for  he  said  to  him- 
self :  "  I  shall  not  find  a  favorable  opportunity.  I  shall 
not  say  anything." 

They  stayed  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  The 
mother  opened  the  shutters,  saying : 

"  They  are  about  to  take  away  Don  Defendente  Scioli's 
body." 

They  leaned  on  the  balcony,  side  by  side.  Then,  look- 
ing up  at  the  sky,  she  added : 

"  What  a  day  this  has  been  !  " 

Guardiagrele,  the  city  of  stone,  shone  resplendent  in  the 
serenity  of  May.  A  fresh  breeze  agitated  the  grasses  on  the 
gargoyles.  In  every  crevice,  from  the  base  to  the  summit, 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore  was  adorned  with  minute,  delicate 
plants,  bloomed  with  innumerable  violet  flowers,  and  as  the 
old  cathedral  reared  its  head  in  the  azure  sky  it  seemed 
clad  in  a  double  mantle  of  marble  flowers  and  of  living 
flowers. 

"  I  will  not  see  Hippolyte  again,"  thought  George.  "  I 
have  dark  forebodings.  I  know  that,  in  five  or  six  days,  I 
shall  go  to  seek  the  hermitage  of  our  dreams ;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  I  know  that  it  will  be  in  vain,  that  I  shall 
achieve  nothing,  that  I  shall  hurl  myself  against  an  unknown 
obstacle  !  How  strange  and  indefinable  are  my  feelings  ! 
It  is  not  /who  know;  but  some  one  in  me  knows  that  all  is 
about  to  end." 

He  thought :  "  She  does  not  write  to  me  any  more. 
Since  I  am  here  I  have  received  from  her  only  two  short 
telegrams — one  from  Pallanza,  the  other  from  Bellagio. 
I  never  felt  so  far  away  from  her.  Perhaps  at  this  moment 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  77 

another  man  pleases  her.  Is  it  possible  that  love  falls  out 
of  a  woman's  heart  all  at  once  ?  Why  not  ?  Her  heart  is 
tired ;  at  Albano,  warmed  anew  by  buried  memories,  it 
palpitated  for  perhaps  the  last  time.  I  was  mistaken. 
But  certain  incidents,  for  him  who  knows  how  to  consider 
them  under  their  ideal  forms,  bear  in  themselves  secret 
significance,  precise  and  independent  of  appearances. 
Well !  when  I  examine  in  thought  all  the  little  incidents  con- 
stituting our  life  at  Albano,  they  assume  an  unquestionable 
significance  and  an  evident  character;  they  are  final.  On 
the  evening  of  Good  Friday,  when  we  arrived  at  the  station 
at  Rome,  and  when  we  said  good-by,  and  the  cab  carried 
her  off  in  the  fog,  did  it  not  seem  to  me  that  I  had  just  lost 
her  forever  ?  Had  I  not  the  innate  conviction  that  all  was 
at  an  end  ?"  His  imagination  presented  to  him  the  ges- 
ture with  which  Hippolyte  had  lowered  her  black  veil  after 
the  last  kiss.  And  the  sun,  the  azure,  the  flowers,  the  gen- 
eral joyousness  of  nature,  suggested  to  him  only  this  reflec- 
tion :  "  Without  her,  life  for  me  is  impossible." 

At  this  moment  his  mother  leaned  over  the  balustrade, 
looked  towards  the  porch  of  the  cathedral,  and  said : 

"  The  procession  is  leaving  the  church." 

The  funereal  brotherhood  left  the  porch  with  its  insignia. 
Four  men  in  cowled  robes  carried  the  coffin  on  their  shoul- 
ders. Two  long  files  of  men,  also  in  cowled  robes,  marched 
behind  with  lighted  tapers,  only  their  eyes  being  visible 
through  the  two  holes  in  their  hoods.  From  time  to  time 
the  breeze  made  the  tiny  and  almost  invisible  flames 
flicker,  and  even  extinguished  some  of  them;  and  the 
candles  consumed  themselves  in  tears.  Each  cowled  man 
had  at  his  side  a  barefooted  child,  who  collected  the 
melted  wax  in  the  hollow  of  his  two  hands. 

When  the  whole  cortege  had  spread  out  in  the  street, 


78  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

musicians  dressed  in  red  with  white  facings  struck  up  a 
funeral  march.  The  undertaker's  assistants  regulated  their 
steps  to  the  time  of  the  music;  the  brass  instruments 
glittered  in  the  sun. 

"  What  sadness  and  ridicule  in  the  honors  rendered  to 
the  dead  !  "  thought  George.  He  saw  himself  in  a  coffin, 
imprisoned  between  the  boards,  carried  by  that  masquerade 
of  people,  escorted  by  those  candles  and  that  horrible  noise 
of  trumpets ;  and  the  idea  filled  him  with  disgust.  Then 
his  attention  was  attracted  to  the  ragged  urchins  who  strove 
to  collect  the  waxen  tears,  walking  unevenly,  painfully,  the 
body  bent,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  flickering  flames. 

"Poor  Don  Defendente ! "  murmured  the  mother, 
watching  the  cortege  as  it  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

Then,  immediately,  as  if  she  were  addressing  herself  and 
not  her  son,  she  added  wearily  : 

"  Why  poor  ?  He  is  at  peace  now;  it  is  we  who  are  to 
be  pitied." 

George  looked  at  her.  Their  eyes  met ;  and  she  smiled 
at  him,  but  a  smile  so  faint  that  not  a  line  of  her  face  was 
moved.  It  was  like  a  very  light  veil,  scarcely  visible,  which 
had  spread  over  this  face  ever  stamped  with  sorrow.  But 
the  imperceptible  gleam  of  this  smile  had  the  same  effect 
on  George  as  some  sudden  great  illumination ;  and  then, 
for  the  first  time,  he  saw  distinctly  on  the  maternal  face  the 
irremediable  work  of  a  great  grief. 

Confronted  with  the  terrible  revelation  which  came  to 
him  from  this  smile,  an  impetuous  wave  of  tenderness 
welled  up  in  his  bosom.  His  mother,  his  own  mother, 
could  no  longer  smile  but  in  that  way — only  in  that  way. 
Henceforth  the  stigmas  of  suffering  would  be  indelible  on 
the  dear  face  which  he  had  seen  bent  over  him  so  often, 
and  with  such  affection,  in  sickness  and  in  affliction! 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  79 

His  mother,  his  own  mother,  was  killing  herself  little  by 
little,  was  wearing  herself  out  day  by  day,  was  drifting 
slowly  to  the  inevitable  tomb  !  And  what  caused,  his  own 
suffering  just  now,  while  his  mother  was  breathing  out  her 
distress,  was  not  the  maternal  sorrow  so  much  as  the  wound 
inflicted  on  his  egotism,  the  shock  given  his  unstrung  nerves 
by  the  unvarnished  expression  of  this  sorrow. 

"  Oh  !  mother,"  he  stammered,  suffocated  by  tears. 

And  he  took  her  hands  and  drew  her  into  the  room. 

"  What's  the  matter,  George  ?  What's  the  matter,  my 
child?"  asked  the  mother,  frightened  at  seeing  his  face 
all  bathed  in  tears. 

"  What's  the  matter?    Tell  me." 

Ah,  now  he  had  found  the  dear  voice  again,  that  unique, 
unforgettable  voice,  which  touched  his  soul  to  its  very  bot- 
tom; that  voice  of  consolation,  of  forgiveness,  of  good 
advice,  of  infinite  goodness,  which  he  had  heard  in  his 
darkest  days — he  had  found  it  again,  he  had  found  it !  In 
short,  he  recognized  the  tender  creature  of  long  ago,  the 
adored  one. 

"Oh!  mother,  mother!" 

And  he  pressed  her  in  his  arms,  sobbing,  wetting  her  with 
burning  tears ;  kissing  her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  forehead, 
in  a  wild  transport. 

"  My  poor  mother!  " 

He  made  her  sit  down,  knelt  before  her,  and  looked  at 
her.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  long  time,  as  if  it  were  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  her  after  a  long  separation.  She,  her 
mouth  contracted,  with  a  sob  but  badly  concealed  which 
choked  her,  asked  : 

"  Have  I  pained  you  very  much  ?  " 

She  dried  her  son's  tears  and  caressed  his  hair.  Then, 
in  a  voice  interspersed  with  convulsive  starts,  she  said  : 


80  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

"  No,  George.  No  !  It  is  not  for  you  to  suffer.  God 
has  kept  you  far  away  from  this  house.  It  is  not  for  you  to 
suffer.  All  my  life,  since  your  birth,  all  my  life,  always, 
always,  I  have  sought  to  spare  you  a  single  pain,  a  mo- 
ment's unhappiness.  Oh  !  why  did  I  not  have  the  strength 
to  remain  silent  this  time  ?  I  should  have  said  nothing;  I 
should  not  have  told  you.  Forgive  me,  George.  I  did  not 
think  I  should  cause  you  so  much  unhappiness.  Don't  cry 
any  more,  I  entreat  you.  George,  I  entreat  you,  don't  cry 
any  more.  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  cry." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down,  overcome  by 
anguish. 

"  See,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  crying  now." 

He  leaned  his  head  on  his  mother's  knees,  and  beneath 
the  caress  of  the  maternal  fingers  soon  became  calm. 
From  time  to  time  a  sob  shook  his  body.  Through  his 
mind,  in  the  form  of  vague  sensations,  passed  once  more  the 
distant  afflictions  of  his  adolescence.  He  heard  the  twit- 
tering of  the  swallows,  the  grating  of  the  scissors  grinder's 
wheel,  the  shrill  cries  on  the  streets — familiar  sounds,  heard 
in  the  afternoons  of  long  ago,  which  used  to  make  his  heart 
grow  faint.  After  the  crisis,  his  soul  found  itself  in  a  state 
of  indefinable  fluctuation.  But  the  image  of  Hippolyte 
reappeared;  and  he  felt  within  him  a  new  upheaval,  so 
tumultuous  that  the  young  man  gave  vent  to  a  sigh  on  his 
mother's  knees. 

"  How  you  sigh  !  "  she  murmured,  bending  over  him. 

Without  raising  his  eyelids,  he  smiled;  but  an  immense 
prostration  came  over  him — a  desolate  lassitude,  a  desper- 
ate desire  to  withdraw  from  this  truceless  struggle. 

The  desire  to  live  left  him  little  by  little,  as  the  heat 
gradually  leaves  a  corpse. 

Of  the  recent  emotion  nothing  remained ;  his  mother  had 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  8l 

once  more  become  a  stranger  to  him.  "  What  could  he  do 
for  her  ?  Save  her  ?  Restore  peace  to  her  ?  Restore 
to  her  health  and  happiness  ?  But  was  not  the  disaster 
irreparable  ?  Henceforth,  was  not  this  woman's  existence 
forever  poisoned  ?  His  mother  could  no  longer  be  a 
refuge  for  him  as  in  the  days  of  his  childhood,  in  the 
bygone  years.  She  could  neither  understand,  console, 
nor  cure  him.  Their  souls,  their  lives,  were  too  differ- 
ent. She  could  only  offer  him  the  spectacle  of  his  own 
torture  !  " 

He  arose,  embraced  her,  disengaged  himself,  went  out, 
ascended  to  his  room,  and  leaned  on  the  balcony.  He  saw 
the  Majella  all  pink  in  the  twilight,  enormous  and  delicate, 
against  a  greenish  sky.  The  deafening  cries  of  the  swallows 
which  were  whirling  around  drove  him  in.  He  went  to  lie 
down  on  his  bed. 

As  he  lay  on  his  back,  he  thought  to  himself :  "  Good; 
I  live,  I  breathe.  But  what  is  the  substance  of  my  life  ? 
To  what  forces  is  it  subjected  ?  What  laws  govern  it  ?  I 
do  not  belong  to  myself — I  escape  from  myself.  The  sen- 
sation I  have  of  my  being  resembles  that  of  a  man  who, 
condemned  to  hold  himself  upright  on  a  surface  constantly 
in  oscillation  and  never  in  equilibrium,  feels  support  con- 
stantly lacking,  no  matter  where  he  places  his  foot.  I  am 
in  a  perpetual  anguish,  and  even  this  anguish  is  not  well 
defined.  Is  it  the  anguish  of  the  fugitive  who  feels  some- 
one at  his  heels  ?  Is  it  the  anguish  of  the  follower  who  can 
never  reach  his  aim  ?  Perhaps  it  is  both." 

The  swallows  twittered  as  they  passed  and  repassed  in 
flocks,  like  black  arrows,  before  the  pale  rectangle  formed 
by  the  balcony. 

"  What  do  I  lack  ?  What  is  the  lacuna  of  my  moral 
being  ?  What  is  the  cause  of  my  impotency  ?  I  have  the 
6 


82  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

most  ardent  desire  to  live,  to  give  all  my  faculties  a  rhythmic 
development,  to  feel  myself  complete  and  harmonious. 
And,  on  the  contrary,  I  secretly  destroy  myself  every  day ; 
each  day  my  life  goes  out  by  invisible  and  innumerable 
fissures;  I  am  like  a  half-emptied  bladder,  which  becomes 
misshapen  in  a  thousand  different  ways  at  every  agitation 
of  the  liquid  it  contains.  All  my  strength  does  not  serve 
me  more  than  to  enable  me  to  drag,  with  immense  fatigue, 
a  little  grain  of  dust  to  which  my  imagination  gives  the 
weight  of  a  gigantic  rock.  A  perpetual  conflict  confuses 
all  my  thoughts  and  renders  them  sterile.  What  is  it  I 
lack  ?  Who  is  it  holds  in  his  power  that  portion  of  my 
being  which  eludes  my  consciousness  and  yet  which,  I  feel 
sure,  is  indispensable  for  the  continuance  of  my  life  ?  Or 
rather,  is  not  this  portion  of  my  existence  already  'dead,  so 
that  only  death  will  enable  me  to  regain  it  ?  Yes,  that  is 
it.  In  fact,  death  attracts  me." 

The  bells  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  tolled  for  vespers. 
Again  he  saw  the  funeral  convoy,  the  coffin,  the  cowled 
men,  and  the  ragged  children  who  strove  to  collect  the 
waxen  tears,  walking  unevenly,  painfully,  the  body  bent, 
their  eyes  fixed  on  the  flickering  flames. 

These  children  greatly  preoccupied  him.  Later,  when 
he  wrote  to  his  mistress,  he  developed  the  secret  allegory 
which  his  mind,  interested  in  such  studies,  had  confusedly 
perceived : 

"  One  of  them,  sickly,  yellowish,  leaning  with  one  arm 
on  a  crutch  and  collecting  the  wax  in  the  hollow  of  his  dis- 
engaged hand,  dragged  himself  along  by  the  side  of  a  species 
of  giant  with  a  hood,  whose  enormous  fist  brutally  grasped 
the  taper.  I  still  see  them  both,  and  I  shall  not  forget 
them.  Perhaps  there  is  something  in  myself  which  makes 
me  resemble  that  child.  My  real  life  is  in  the  power  of 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  8j 

some  one,  a  mysterious  and  unknowable  being  who  holds  it  ii\ 
a  grasp  of  iron ;  and  I  see  it  being  consumed,  and  I  drag 
myself  after  it,  and  I  tire  myself  trying  to  collect  at  least 
a  few  drops,  and  every  drop  that  falls  burns  my  pool 
hand." 


CHAPTER   III. 

ON  the  table,  in  a  vase,  there  was  a  bunch  of  fresh 
roses,  May  roses,  which  Camille,  his  younger  sister,  had 
gathered  in  the  garden.  Around  the  table  were  seated  the 
father,  the  mother,  the  brother  Diego,  Albert — Camille's 
fiance",  invited  to  dinner — and  the  elder  sister  Christine, 
with  her  husband  and  child,  a  blond  boy  with  a  snowy- 
white  complexion,  fragile  as  a  blooming  lily. 

George  was  seated  between  his  father  and  mother. 

Christine's  husband,  Don  Bartolomeo  Celaia,  Baron  of 
Palleaura,  was  speaking  of  municipal  intrigues  in  an  irri- 
tating tone.  He  was  a  man  approaching  fifty,  dried  up, 
bald  at  the  top  of  his  head,  as  if  tonsured,  his  face  clean 
shaven.  The  almost  insolent  acrimony  of  his  gestures  and 
manners  contrasted  strangely  with  his  ecclesiastic  aspect. 

As  George  listened  to  him,  and  observed  him,  he 
thought :  "  Can  Christine  be  happy  with  that  man  ?  Can 
she  love  him  ?  Dear  Christine,  the  affectionate,  melan- 
choly creature,  whom  I  have  so  often  seen  weep  from 
sudden  effusions  of  tenderness,  to  be  tied  for  life  to  that 
heartless  creature,  almost  an  old  man,  soured  by  the  silly 
wrangles  of  provincial  politics  !  And  she  has  not  even  the 
consolation  of  finding  comfort  in  maternity ;  she  must  be 
racked  with  worry  and  anguish  for  her  child — sickly, 
anaemic,  always  pensive.  Poor  creature  !  " 

He  gave  his  sister  a  look  full  of  sympathetic  kindness. 
Christine  smiled  at  him  over  the  roses,  inclining  her  head 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  85 

slightly  to  the  left,  with  a  graceful  movement  peculiar  to 
her. 

Seeing  Diego  by  her  side,  he  thought :  "  Who  would 
believe  they  were  of  the  same  race  ?  Christine  has  largely 
inherited  the  amiability  of  her  mother;  she  has  her  mother's 
eyes,  and,  above  all,  has  her  ways  and  gestures.  But 
Diego!"  He  observed  his  brother  with  that  instinctive 
repulsion  that  every  being  feels  in  the  presence  of  an  uncon- 
genial, contradictory,  absolutely  opposite  being.  Diego 
ate  voraciously,  without  once  raising  his  head  from  above 
his  plate,  wholly  absorbed  in  his  work.  He  was  not  yet 
twenty,  but  he  was  thick-set,  already  heavy  on  account  of  a 
commencing  embonpoint,  and  his  face  was  congested.  His 
eyes,  small  and  grayish,  beneath  a  low  forehead,  did  not 
reveal  the  slightest  intellectual  light ;  a  yellow  down  cov- 
ered his  cheeks  and  strong  jaws,  and  cast  a  shadow  on  his 
projecting,  sensual  mouth ;  the  same  down  was  noticeable 
also  on  his  hands,  the  badly  kept  nails  of  which  attested  a 
disdain  for  personal  cleanliness. 

"  Can  I  love  him?  "  thought  George.  "  Even  to  address 
a  single  insignificant  word  to  him — even  to  respond  to  his 
simple  greeting,  I  have  to  surmount  an  almost  physical  re- 
pugnance. When  he  speaks  to  me,  his  eyes  never  meet 
mine ;  and  if  by  chance  our  eyes  do  meet,  he  averts  his 
immediately  with  a  strange  precipitation.  He  reddens 
before  me  almost  continually,  and  without  apparent  cause. 
How  curious  I  am  to  know  his  sentiments  regarding  me ! 
Without  a  doubt,  he  hates  me." 

By  a  spontaneous  transition,  his  attention  was  transferred 
to  his  father,  to  the  man  whose  traits  Diego  most  truly 
inherited. 

Stout,  sanguine,  powerful,  the  man  seemed  to  exhale  from 
his  whole  body  an  inexhaustible  warmth  of  carnal  vitality. 


86  THE    TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

His  jaws  were  heavy,  his  mouth  thick-lipped,  imperious, 
full  of  a  vehement  respiration,  his  eyes  restless  and  malig- 
nant-looking; his  nose  was  swollen,  freckled,  and  twitched 
spasmodically:  every  feature  of  his  face  bore  the  impress 
of  a  violent  and  cruel  nature.  Every  gesture,  every  attitude, 
had  the  abruptness  of  an  effort,  as  if  the  whole  muscular 
system  of  his  massive  body  was  in  continual  struggle  with 
the  encumbering  fat.  His  flesh,  that  coarse  stuff  full  of 
veins,  nerves,  tendons,  glands,  and  bones,  full  of  instincts 
and  necessities ;  the  flesh  that  sweats  and  stinks ;  flesh  which 
deforms  and  sickens,  ulcerates  and  is  covered  with  wrinkles, 
pimples,  warts,  and  hairs ;  that  bestial  stuff,  flesh,  flour- 
ished in  him  with  a  species  of  impudence,  and  inspired  in 
the  refined  visitor  an  unconquerable  repulsion.  "  No, 
no,"  said  George  to  himself.  "Ten  or  fifteen  years  ago 
he  was  not  like  that.  I  remember  distinctly  that  he  was  not 
like  that.  This  growth  of  latent  and  unsuspected  brutality 
appears  to  have  occurred  slowly,  progressively.  And  I — I 
am  that  man's  son  !  " 

He  observed  his  father.  He  noticed  that  at  the  angle  of 
his  eyes,  on  his  temples,  the  man  had  a  number  of  wrinkles, 
and  beneath  each  eye  a  swelling,  or  species  of  violet- 
colored  pouch.  He  noted  the  short  neck,  swollen,  con- 
gested, apoplectic.  He  perceived  that  the  mustache  and 
hair  bore  traces  of  dye.  The  beginning  of  old  age  in  the 
voluptuary,  the  implacable  work  of  vice  and  time,  the  vain 
and  clumsy  artifice  to  hide  the  senile  grayness,  the  menace 
of  a  sudden  death — all  these  sad,  miserable,  and  tragic 
things  of  human  life  filled  the  son's  heart  with  profound  dis- 
tress. An  immense  pity  entered  into  his  heart,  even  for  his 
father.  "  Blame  him  ?  But  he  suffers,  too.  All  this  flesh, 
which  inspires  such  a  strong  aversion  in  me,  ail  this  heavy 
mass  of  flesh,  is  inhabited  by  a  soul.  What  anguish  he  may 


THE   PATERNAL   ROOF.  87 

have  felt,  and  what  weariness  !  He  certainly  has  a  terrible 
fear  of  death."  Suddenly,  he  had  a  mental  vision  of  his 
father  in  his  death  agony.  An  attack  had  overthrown  him, 
stricken  him  mortally ;  he  panted,  still  alive,  livid,  mute, 
unrecognizable,  his  eyes  full  of  the  horror  of  death ;  then, 
as  if  stricken  to  earth  by  a  second  blow  of  the  invisible 
sledge-hammer,  he  lay  motionless,  a  mass  of  inert  flesh. 
"  Would  my  mother  weep  ?  " 

"  You  are  not  eating  anything,"  his  mother  said  to  him. 
"  You  do  not  drink.  You  have  eaten  almost  nothing. 
Perhaps  you  are  not  well  ?  " 

"No,  mother,"  he  replied.  "I  have  no  appetite  this 
morning." 

The  sound  of  something  dragging  itself  along  near  the 
table  caused  him  to  turn.  He  perceived  the  decrepit  tor- 
toise, and  remembered  the  words  of  Aunt  Joconda  :  "  She 
became  lame  like  me.  Your  father,  with  a  blow  of  his 
heel " 

While  he  was  looking  at  the  tortoise,  his  mother  said  to 
him,  with  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  : 

"  She  is  as  old  as  you  are.  I  was  carrying  you  when  it 
was  given  to  me." 

With  the  same  imperceptible  smile,  she  added :  "  She 
was  quite  small.  The  shell  was  almost  transparent;  she 
resembled  a  toy.  She  has  lived  in  our  house  ever  since, 
growing  bigger  every  year." 

She  took  an  apple  paring  and  offered  it  to  the  tortoise. 
She  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  poor  animal,  which  moved 
its  yellowish,  old,  serpent-like  head  with  a  kind  of  dazed 
trembling.  Then  dreamily  she  began  to  peel  an  orange  for 
George. 

"  She  remembers,"  thought  George,  seeing  his  mother  so 
absorbed.  He  guessed  the  inexpressible  sadness  which, 


88  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

without  any  doubt,  entered  her  soul  at  the  recollection  of 
the  happy  days,  now  that  the  ruin  was  complete,  now  that, 
after  so  many  treasons,  after  so  many  infamies,  all  was 
irreparably  lost.  "  She  was  loved  by  him  formerly ;  she  was 
young ;  perhaps  she  had  not  yet  suffered  !  How  her  heart 
must  sigh  !  What  regret,  what  hopelessness  must  well  up 
from  her  entrails  !  "  The  son  suffered  from  the  maternal 
suffering — reproduced  in  himself  his  mother's  anguish. 
And  he  dwelt  so  long,  savoring  the  supreme  delicacy  of  his 
emotion,  that  his  eyes  became  veiled  in  tears.  He  repressed 
the  tears  by  an  effort,  and  felt  them  fall,  very  softly,  within 
himself.  "  Oh  !  mother,  if  you  only  knew." 

On  turning  round,  he  saw  that  Christine  was  smiling  at 
him  over  the  roses. 

Camille's  fiance  was  just  saying  : 

"  That  is  what  one  might  call  being  ignorant  of  the  first 
word  of  the  Code.  When  one  claims  to " 

The  baron  approved  the  young  doctor's  arguments,  and 
repeated  after  each  sentence  : 

"Assuredly,  assuredly." 

They  were  demolishing  the  mayor. 

Young  Albert  was  seated  beside  Camille,  his  fiancee. 
He  was  dressed  foppishly  and  his  complexion  was  pink  and 
white,  like  a  wax  figure ;  he  wore  a  little  pointed  beard,  his 
hair  was  parted  in  a  straight  line,  a  few  curls  were  coquet- 
tishly  arranged  around  his  forehead,  and  a  pair  of  gold- 
mounted  glasses  were  on  his  nose.  "That  is  Camille's 
ideal,"  thought  George.  "  For  several  years  they  have 
loved  one  another  with  an  all-powerful  love.  They  be- 
lieve in  their  future  happiness.  They  have  long  sighed 
for  that  happiness.  Without  doubt,  Albert  has  promenaded 
with  this  poor  girl  on  his  arm  through  all  the  commonplaces 
of  the  idyll.  Camille  is  not  robust;  she  suffers  imaginary 


THE   PATERNAL   ROOF.  8p 

ailments;  she  does  nothing  from  morning  to  night  but 
weary  her  confidant,  the  piano,  with  nocturnes.  They  will 
get  married.  What  will  be  their  lot  ?  A  young  man  vain 
and  empty,  a  sentimental  young  girl,  in  the  petty  provincial 
world — "  An  instant  longer  he  followed  in  imagination 
the  development  of  these  two  mediocre  existences,  and  he 
felt  moved  by  pity  for  his  sister.  He  looked  at  her. 

Physically,  she  resembled  him  somewhat.  She  was  tall 
and  slim,  with  beautiful  chestnut-colored  hair.  Her  eyes 
were  bright  but  changing,  green,  blue,  or  ashen  in  turn.  A 
light  application  of  poudre  de  ris  rendered  her  still  paler. 
She  wore  two  roses  on  her  bosom. 

"  Perhaps  she,  too,  resembles  me  otherwise  than  in  her 
features.  Perhaps,  unknown  to  her,  her  soul  bears  some  of 
the  fatal  germs  which  have  developed  in  my  consciousness 
with  such  might.  Her  heart  must  be  full  of  mediocre 
anxieties  and  melancholies.  She  is  ill,  without  knowing 
what  her  trouble  is." 

At  this  moment  his  mother  rose.  They  all  followed  her, 
excepting  the  father  and  Don  Bartolomeo  Celaia,  who 
remained  at  the  table  to  chat;  which  rendered  them  both 
more  odious  to  George.  He  had  put  one  arm  around  his 
mother's  waist  and  the  other  around  Christine's  waist, 
affectionately,  and  so  they  passed  into  the  adjoining  room, 
he  almost  dragging  them.  He  felt  his  heart  swollen  by 
extraordinary  tenderness  and  compassion.  At  the  first  notes 
of  the  nocturne  which  Camille  commenced  to  play,  he  said 
to  Christine  : 

"Will  you  come  down  into  the  garden  ?  " 

The  mother  remained  near  the  engaged  couple.  Christ- 
ine and  George  went  down,  accompanied  by  the  silent 
child. 

At  first   they  walked  side  by   side,  without   speaking. 


90  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

George  had  taken  his  sister's  arm,  as  he  was  accustomed  to 
do  with  Hippolyte.  Christine  stopped,  murmuring  : 

"  Poor,  neglected  garden  !  Do  you  remember  our  games 
when  we  were  little  ?  " 

And  she  looked  at  her  son  Luke. 

"  Go,  my  Luchino;  run  and  play  a  little." 

But  the  child  did  not  move  from  his  mother's  side ;  on 
the  contrary,  he  seized  her  hand.  She  sighed,  looking  at 
George. 

"  You  see  !  It  is  always  the  same  !  He  never  runs, 
he  never  plays,  he  never  laughs.  He  never  leaves  me, 
never  wishes  to  be  away  from  me.  He's  afraid  of  every- 
thing I" 

Absorbed  in  thoughts  of  his  absent  mistress,  George  did 
not  hear  what  Christine  was  saying. 

The  garden,  half  in  the  sun,  half  in  the  shade,  was  girt 
by  a  wall  on  the  top  of  which  glittered  fragments  of  broken 
glass  fixed  in  the  cement.  Along  one  side  ran  a  vine. 
Along  the  other  side,  at  equal  distances,  reared  tall 
cypresses,  slim  and  straight  as  candles,  with  a  meagre  tuft 
of  sombre  foliage,  almost  black,  shaped  like  a  lance-head, 
at  the  summit  of  their  trunks.  In  the  part  exposed  to  the 
south,  on  a  sunny  strip  of  ground,  flourished  several  rows  of 
orange  and  lemon  trees,  just  then  in  bloom.  The  rest  of 
the  ground  was  strewn  with  rose-bushes,  lilacs,  and  aromatic 
herbs.  Here  and  there  could  be  seen  several  small  myrtle- 
bushes  planted  at  regular  intervals,  and  which  had  served 
to  line  the  now  ruined  borders.  In  one  corner  there  was 
a  handsome  cherry-tree ;  in  the  centre  there  was  a  round 
basin,  filled  with  gloomy-looking  water  in  which  were 
growing  lentils. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Christine,  "  do  you  remember  the  day 
you  fell  into  the  basin,  and  how  poor  Uncle  Demetrius 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  9! 

dragged  you  out  ?  How  you  frightened  us  that  day !  It 
was  a  miracle  that  you  were  taken  out  alive." 

At  the  name  of  Demetrius,  George  started.  It  was  a  well- 
beloved  name,  the  name  which  always  made  his  heart  pal- 
pitate when  he  heard  it  mentioned.  He  listened  to  his 
sister ;  he  watched  the  water,  over  which  long-legged  insects 
made  rapid  flights.  An  anxious  desire  came  to  him  to 
speak  of  the  dead,  to  speak  of  him  freely,  to  revive  all  his 
memories ;  but  he  checked  himself,  feeling  that  selfish  pride 
which  prompts  one  to  conceal  a  secret,  in  order  that  the 
soul  may  feed  upon  it  in  solitude.  He  experienced  a  sen- 
sation almost  akin  to  jealousy  at  the  thought  that  his  sister 
should  have  been  touched  and  moved  at  the  memory  of  the 
dead  man.  That  memory  was  his  own  property  exclusively. 
He  guarded  it,  in  the  intimacy  of  his  soul,  with  a  grieved 
and  profound  cult,  forever.  Demetrius  had  been  his  veri- 
table father ;  he  was  his  only  and  unique  parent. 

And  he  reappeared  to  his  mind,  a  mild,  meditative  man, 
with  a  face  full  of  a  virile  melancholy,  and  a  single  white 
curl  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  among  the  black  hair, 
giving  him  an  odd  appearance. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Christine,  "  the  evening  that 
you  hid  yourself  and  passed  the  whole  night  out  of  doors 
without  showing  yourself  until  morning  ?  How  frightened 
we  were  that  time,  too  !  How  we  looked  for  you  !  How 
we  cried !  " 

George  smiled.  He  remembered  having  hid  himself, 
not  out  of  fun,  but  from  a  cruel  curiosity,  to  make  his 
people  believe  he  was  lost,  and  to  make  them  weep  for 
him.  During  the  evening — a  humid,  calm  evening — he  had 
heard  the  voices  calling  him,  he  had  listened  eagerly  for 
the  slightest  sounds  which  came  from  the  house  in  an 
uproar,  he  had  held  his  breath  with  a  joy  mixed  with  terror 


92  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

on  seeing  the  persons  who  were  seeking  him  pass  near  his 
hiding-place.  After  the  entire  garden  had  been  ransacked 
without  result,  he  still  lay  crouching  in  his  hiding-place. 
And  then,  at  the  sight  of  the  household  in  confusion, 
which  could  be  seen  by  the  quick  going  and  coming  of 
shadows  before  the  lighted  windows,  he  was  seized  by  an 
extraordinary  emotion,  acute  to  the  point  of  tears ;  he  felt 
sorry  for  his  parents  and  for  himself,  just  as  though  he  were 
really  lost;  but,  in  spite  of  all,  he  obstinately  persisted  in 
concealing  himself.  And  then  the  morning  came ;  and  the 
slow  diffusion  of  the  light  in  the  silent  immensity  had 
swept  from  his  brain  as  if  a  mist  of  folly,  had  given  him 
the  consciousness  of  the  reality,  had  awakened  in  him 
remorse.  He  had  thought  of  his  father  and  the  punishment 
with  terror  and  despair;  and  the  basin  had  fascinated  him. 
He  felt  himself  attracted  by  that  pale  and  gentle  piece  of 
water  which  reflected  the  sky — the  water  in  which  a  few 
months  before  he  had  almost  perished. 

"  It  was  during  Demetrius's  absence,"  he  remembered 
again. 

"  Do  you  smell  that  perfume,  George  ?  "  said  Christine. 
"  I  will  gather  a  bouquet." 

The  air,  impregnated  with  a  warm  humidity,  and  charged 
with  heavy  perfumes,  disposed  one  to  indolence.  The 
bunches  of  lilac,  the  orange-blossom,  the  roses,  thyme, 
marjoram,  sweet  basil,  myrtle  —  all  their  essences  com- 
bined to  form  one  single  essence,  delicate  yet  power- 
ful. 

All  at  once,  Christine  asked  : 

"  Why  are  you  so  thoughtful  ?  " 

The  perfume  had  just  aroused  in  George  a  great  tumult, 
a  furious  resurrection  of  all  his  passion,  a  desire  for  Hippo- 
lyte  which  had  routed  every  other  sentiment,  a  thousand 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  93 

recollections  of  sensual  delights  which  coursed  through  his 
veins. 

Smiling  and  hesitating,  Christine  added  : 

"  You  are  thinking — of  her?" 

"Ah!  it  is  true,  you  know,"  said  George,  reddening 
suddenly  under  his  sister's  indulgent  gaze. 

He  remembered  he  had  spoken  to  her  of  Hippolyte  the 
previous  autumn,  in  September,  at  the  time  he  stayed  at  her 
house  at  Torricelle  di  Sarsa,  on  the  seacoast. 

Still  smiling,  still  hesitating,  Christine  again  asked: 

"  Do  you — still  love  her  as  much  as  you  did  ?  " 
."Still." 

Without  further  speech,  they  directed  their  steps  towards 
the  orange  and  lemon  trees,  both  disturbed,  but  in  a  differ- 
ent manner.  George  felt  his  regrets  augmented  by  having 
confided  in  his  sister ;  Christine  felt  a  confused  revival  of 
her  smothered  aspirations,  as  she  thought  of  the  unknown 
woman  whom  her  brother  adored.  Their  eyes  met  and  they 
smiled,  and  the  smile  seemed  to  diminish  their  pain. 

She  made  a  few  rapid  steps  towards  the  orange-trees, 
exclaiming : 

"  Goodness  !  what  a  quantity  of  flowers  !  " 

She  began  to  pluck  the  flowers,  her  arms  raised,  shaking 
the  boughs  to  break  off  the  small  branches.  The  corollas  fell 
on  her  head,  shoulders,  and  bosom.  All  around,  the  ground 
was  strewn  with  the  fallen  petals,  as  if  with  a  fragrant  snow. 
She  was  charming  in  this  attitude,  with  her  oval  face  and 
long,  white  neck.  The  effort  animated  her  visage.  All  at 
once  her  arms  dropped,  she  grew  pale,  and  tottered  as  if 
overcome  by  vertigo. 

"What's  the  matter,  Christine  ?  Are  you  ill  ?"  cried 
George,  frightened,  as  he  supported  her  with  his  arm. 

But  a  violent  nausea  choked  her,  and  she  was  unable  to 


94  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

answer.  She  motioned  that  she  wished  to  be  taken  away 
from  the  trees,  and,  supported  by  her  brother,  she  made  a 
few  uncertain  steps  forward,  while  Luke  watched  her  with 
terrified  eyes.  Then  she  stopped,  gave  a  sigh,  regained  her 
color  little  by  little,  and  in  a  voice  that  was  still  weak 
said : 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  George.  It  is  nothing.  I  am 
enceinte.  The  strong  odor  made  me  feel  ill.  It  is  gone 
now.  I  am  all  right  now." 

"  Shall  we  go  back  to  the  house  ?  " 

"  No.     Let  us  stay  in  the  garden.     Let  us  sit  down." 

They  sat  under  the  vine,  on  an  old  stone  bench.  Noti- 
cing the  child's  grave  and  absorbed  look,  George  called  him 
to  rouse  him  from  his  stupor. 

"Luchino!" 

The  child  leaned  his  heavy  head  on  his  mother's  knees. 
He  was  frail  as  a  lily-stem ;  he  seemed  to  have  difficulty  in 
carrying  his  head  upright  on  his  shoulders.  His  skin  was 
so  delicate  that  every  vein  was  visible,  delineated  as  if 
threads  of  blue  silk.  His  hair  was  so  blond  that  it  was 
almost  white.  His  eyes,  gentle  and  humid,  like  those  of  a 
lamb,  showed  their  pale  azure  from  between  long,  fair  eye- 
lashes. 

His  mother  caressed  him,  pressing  her  lips  together  to 
restrain  a  sob.  But  two  tears  welled  up,  and  rolled  down 
her  cheeks. 

"Oh,  Christine!" 

Her  brother's  affectionate  tone  only  increased  her  emo- 
tion. Other  tears  welled  up,  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"  You  see,  George!  I  have  never  claimed  anything;  I 
have  always  accepted  everything;  I  have  always  been 
resigned  to  everything;  I  have  never  complained — never 
rebelled.  You  know  that-  George.  But  now  this — now 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  95 

this  !  Oh  !  Not  even  to  be  able  to  find  a  little  consola- 
tion in  my  son  !  " 

She  spoke  tearfully,  and  in  a  desolate  tone. 

"  Oh  !  George,  you  see ;  you  see  how  it  is.  He  does  not 
speak,  or  laugh,  or  play ;  he  is  never  merry,  and  he  never 
does  what  other  children  do.  And  it  seems  to  me  that  he 
loves  me  so  much,  that  he  adores  me  !  He  never  leaves 
my  side,  never.  I  begin  to  believe  that  he  only  lives  from 
my  breath.  Oh !  George,  if  I  were  to  tell  you  of  certain 
days,  long,  long  days,  which  seem  endless.  I  work  near 
the  window;  I  raise  my  eyes,  and  I  meet  his  eyes  gazing, 
gazing  at  me.  It  is  a  slow  torture,  a  punishment  that  I 
cannot  describe.  It  is  as  if  I  felt  my  blood  flowing  drop 
by  drop  from  my  heart." 

She  stopped,  choked  by  anguish.  Drying  her  tears,  she 
went  on : 

"  If  at  least  the  one  I  am  bearing  is  born,  I  will  not  say 
beautiful,  but  with  health  !  If,  for  this  once,  God  will 
come  to  my  aid  ! ' ' 

She  became  silent,  attentive,  as  if  to  draw  an  omen  from 
the  trembling  of  the  new  life  which  she  carried  in  her 
womb.  George  took  her  hand.  And  for  several  minutes 
the  brother  and  sister  sat  mute  and  motionless  on  the  bench, 
overwhelmed  by  existence. 

Before  them  stretched  out  the  solitary  and  abandoned 
garden.  The  cypress-trees,  straight  and  motionless,  reared 
their  tall  trunks  religiously  towards  the  sky,  like  votive 
candles.  The  rare  zephyrs  which  passed  over  the  neighbor- 
ing rose-trees  had  scarcely  enough  strength  to  cause  the  fall 
of  the  leaves  of  the  few  faded  roses.  From  time  to  time, 
after  intervals  of  silence,  came  sounds  of  a  piano  from  the 
distant  house. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  WHEN  ?  When  ?  The  action  they  wish  to  force  on 
me  becomes  inevitable  then  ?  I  shall  be  obliged,  then,  to 
face  that  brute?"  George  saw  the  hour  approach  with 
ungovernable  dread.  Ah  insurmountable  repugnance  arose 
from  the  roots  of  his  being  at  the  very  thought  that  he  was 
going  to  find  himself  alone,  in  a  closed  room,  in  a  tete-b-tete, 
with  that  man. 

As  the  days  passed,  he  felt  increase  his  anxiety  and  hu- 
miliation, caused  by  culpable  inertia.  He  felt  that  his 
mother,  that  his  sister,  that  all  the  victims,  expected  from 
him,  the  first-born,  some  energetic  action,  some  kind  of 
protest — protection.  Why,  in  fact,  had  he  been  summoned  ? 
Why  had  he  come  ?  From  now  on,  it  no  longer  seemed  pos- 
sible for  him  to  leave  without  having  done  his  duty.  With- 
out doubt,  at  the  last  minute,  he  could  have  escaped  without 
saying  good-by,  and  then  written  a  letter  justifying  his 
conduct  by  any  plausible  pretext.  When  his  distress  was 
at  its  height,  he  ventured  to  think  of  this  ignominious  re- 
source ;  he  stopped  to  consider  a  way,  to  arrange  the  most 
trifling  details,  to  picture  the  results.  But,  in  the  scenes 
conjured  up,  the  unhappy  and  ravaged  face  of  his  mother 
awoke  in  him  an  intolerable  remorse.  The  reflections 
which  he  made  on  his  egotism  and  his  weakness  revolted 
him  against  himself :  and  he  sought  with  puerile  fury  to 
find  some  particle  of  energy  which  he  could  excite  and  effi- 
caciously employ  against  the  greater  part  of  his  being,  and 


THE    PATERNAL   ROOF.  97 

which  would  permit  him  to  triumph  over  it  as  over  a  cow- 
ardly brute.  But  this  false  energy  did  not  last,  did  not 
serve  in  the  least  to  press  him  to  a  manly  resolution. 
Then  he  undertook  to  calmly  examine  his  situation,  and  he 
deluded  himself  by  the  very  vigor  of  his  reasoning.  He 
thought :  "  What  good  could  I  do  ?  What  evils  could  my 
intervention  remedy  ?  Will  this  unhappy  effort  which  my 
mother  and  the  rest  demand  from  me  yield  any  real  advan- 
tage ?  And  what  advantage  ?  "  As  he  had  not  found  in 
himself  the  energy  necessary  for  the  execution  of  the  act, 
as  he  had  not  succeeded  in  provoking  in  himself  a  satisfac- 
tory revolt,  he  had  recourse  to  the  opposite  method — he 
attempted  to  demonstrate  to  his  own  satisfaction  the  use- 
lessness  of  the  effort.  "  What  would  be  the  result  of  the 
interview  ?  It  would  certainly  have  none.  According  to 
my  father's  humor  or  according  to  the  trend  of  his  conver- 
sation, he  would  be  either  violent  or  persuasive.  In  the 
first  case,  his  violence  and  insults  would  take  me  by  sur- 
prise. In  the  second  case,  my  father  would  find  a  mass  of 
arguments  to  prove  to  me  either  his  innocence  or  the  neces- 
sity of  his  faults,  and  I  should  be  taken  equally  by  sur- 
prise. The  facts  are  irreparable.  When  vice  is  rooted  in 
the  intimate  substance  of  a  man,  it  becomes  indestructible. 
Now,  my  father  is  at  the  age  when  vice  can  no  longer  be 
rooted  out,  when  habits  can  no  longer  be  changed.  For 
years  he  has  been  associated  with  that  woman  and  those 
children.  Have  I  the  slightest  chance  to  convince  him 
that  he  ought  to  break  off  all  those  ties  ?  Yesterday,  I  saw 
the  woman.  It  sufficed  to  see  her,  to  guess  that  she  will 
never  let  go  her  hold  on  the  man  whose  flesh  she  holds  in 
her  clutches.  She  will  dominate  him  until  his  death.  The 
thing  is  now  irremediable.  And  then,  there  are  those  chil- 
dren and  those  children's  rights.  Besides,  after  all  that 
7 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

has  occurred,  would  a  reconciliation  be  possible  between 
ray  father  and  mother  ?  Never.  All  my  attempts  would 
then  be  fruitless.  And  then  ?  There  still  remains  the 
question  of  material  damage,  of  money  squandered,  of  dilap- 
idation. But  does  it  fall  on  me  to  put  all  this  in  order, 
since  I  live  far  away  from  the  house  ?  It  would  require 
constant  vigilance  to  do  that,  and  only  Diego  could  do  it. 
I  will  speak  to  Diego;  I  will  arrange  with  him.  In  short, 
the  most  urgent  matter  just  now  is  Camille's  dowry.  Albert 
frequently  brings  the  subject  up,  and  is  even  the  most  an- 
noying of  all  my  solicitors.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to 
make  some  arrangement  without  difficulty." 

He  intended  to  favor  his  sister  by  contributing  towards 
her  dowry;  for,  the  heir  of  all  his  uncle  Demetrius's  for- 
tune, he  was  rich,  and  already  in  possession  of  his  property. 
The  intention  to  perform  this  generous  act  raised  him 
once  more  in  his  own  conscience.  He  believed  himself 
freed  from  all  other  duties,  from  any  other  disagreeable 
step,  by  the  sacrifice  which  he  consented  to  make  of  his 
money. 

When  he  turned  his  steps  towards  his  mother's  room  he 
felt  less  uneasy,  lighter,  more  comfortable.  Moreover,  he 
had  learned  that  since  morning  his  father  had  returned  to 
the  country  place  where  he  usually  went  in  order  to  have 
more  freedom  in  his  actions.  And  it  relieved  him  greatly 
to  think  that  in  the  evening,  at  table,  a  certain  place 
would  be  vacant. 

"  Ah  !  George,  you  have  come  just  in  time,"  cried  his 
mother,  directly  she  saw  him  enter. 

The  angry  voice  gave  him  such  a  rude  and  unexpected 
shock  that  he  stopped,  and  he  looked  at  his  mother  with 
stupor,  so  transfigured  by  the  transport  of  anger  as  to  be 
almost  unrecognizable.  He  also  looked  at  Diego,  not 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  99 

understanding;  he  looked  at  Camille,  who  stood  still,  mute 
and  hostile. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  stammered  George,  fixing  his 
eyes  once  more  on  his  brother,  attracted  by  the  bad  expres- 
sion which  he  saw  for  the  first  time  on  the  young  man's  face. 

"  The  strong  box  in  which  the  silverware  is  kept  is  no 
longer  in  its  place,"  said  Diego,  without  raising  his  eyes, 
contracting  his  eyebrows  and  mumbling.  "  They  charge 
me  with  having  made  away  with  it." 

A  flood  of  bitter  words  fell  from  the  unhappy  woman's 
mouth. 

"  Yes,  you — in  league  with  your  father.  You  are  your 
father's  accomplice.  Oh !  what  infamy.  And  now  this 
frightful  thing  !  Now  this  frightful  thing  !  The  child  who 
has  nursed  at  my  breast  to  turn  against  me  !  But  you  are 
the  only  one  who  resembles  him.  God  has  been  more  mer- 
ciful with  the  others.  O  God,  blessed  be  thy  name, 
blessed  forever,  for  having  spared  me  that  supreme  misfor- 
tune !  You  are  the  only  one  who  resembles  him,  the  only 
one " 

She  turned  towards  George,  who  stood  paralyzed,  motion- 
less, voiceless.  Her  chin  trembled  spasmodically;  and  she 
was  so  convulsed  that  one  would  have  believed  that  she 
was  going  to  sink  down  on  the  floor  at  any  moment. 

"  Do  you  see  now  the  life  that  we  lead  ?  Tell  me,  do 
you  see  it  now  ?  Every  day,  some  new  infamy.  Every  day, 
the  same  struggle  to  prevent  the  pillage  of  this  unfortunate 
house.  Are  you  convinced  now  that,  if  your  father  could, 
he  would  turn  us  into  the  streets,  snatch  the  bread  from  our 
mouths?  And  it  will  come  to  that;  we  shall  end  by  seeing 
that.  You  will  see,  you  will  see." 

She  continued,  panting,  with  a  choking  sob  in  her  throat 
at  every  pause,  giving  vent  at  times  to  hoarse  shrieks,  which 


100  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

expressed  an  almost  savage  hate,  a  hate  inconceivable  in  a 
creature  apparently  so  delicate.  And  once  more  accusa- 
tions fell  from  her  lips.  The  man  had  no  longer  the 
slightest  consideration,  the  slightest  shame.  He  would 
stop  at  nothing  and  for  nobody  to  make  money.  He  had 
become  insane ;  he  seemed  a  prey  to  uncontrollable  mad- 
ness. He  had  ruined  his  real  estate,  cut  down  his  woods, 
sold  his  herds  at  hazard,  blindly,  to  the  first  comer,  to  the 
one  who  offered  most.  Now  he  began  to  despoil  the  house 
in  which  his  children  were  born.  For  a  long  time  he  had 
had  designs  upon  the  silver,  family  silver,  old  and  heredi- 
tary, piously  guarded  as  a  relic  of  the  house  of  Aurispa, 
preserved  intact  until  now.  Hiding  it  had  proved  useless. 
Diego  was  in  league  with  his  father;  and  the  two  confed- 
erates, eluding  the  keenest  vigilance,  had  taken  it,  to  do 
with  it  God  only  knows  what. 

"  Have  you  no  shame  ?"  she  went  on,  turning  towards 
Diego,  who  restrained  with  difficulty  an  explosion  of  his 
violence.  "  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  take  part  with  your 
father  against  me — against  me,  who  have  never  refused 
you  anything,  who  have  always  done  as  you  wished  ?  And 
yet  you  know,  you  know  perfectly  well,  where  the  silver  has 
gone.  And  you  are  not  ashamed  ?  You've  nothing  to  say  ? 
Won't  you  answer  ?  Look,  there's  your  brother.  Tell  me 
where  the  box  has  gone.  I  must  know,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  said  that  I  don't  know,  that  I  haven't 
seen  the  box,  and  that  I  did  not  take  it,"  cried  Diego, 
unable  to  longer  contain  himself, -with  an  explosion  of 
brutality,  and  shaking  his  head;  and  the  sombre  flame 
which  lit  up  his  face  made  him  resemble  the  absentee. 
"  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

The  mother,  pale  as  death,  looked  at  George,  to  whom 
the  look  seemed  to  impart  a  similar  color. 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  IOI 

Seized  with  a  fit  of  trembling  impossible  to  hide,  the 
elder  brother  said  to  the  younger : 

"  Diego,  leave  the  room." 

"  I'll  leave  when  it  pleases  me,"  replied  Diego  inso- 
lently, shrugging  his  shoulders,  without,  however,  looking 
his  brother  in  the  face. 

Then  a  sudden  exasperation  seized  George,  one  of  those 
extreme  exasperations  which,  in  feeble  and  irresolute  men, 
have  such  an  excessive  vehemence  that  they  cannot  manifest 
themselves  by  any  external  act,  but  cause  to  pass  before 
the  thwarted  will  flashes  of  criminal  visions.  The  hatred 
between  brothers,  that  odious  hate  which,  since  the  crea- 
tion, breeds  secretly  at  the  bottom  of  human  nature  to 
break  out  at  the  first  discord,  more  ferocious  than  every 
other  hate — that  inexplicable  hostility  which  exists,  latent, 
between  the  males  of  the  same  blood,  even  though  the  cus- 
toms and  peace  of  the  birthplace  have  created  between  them 
affectionate  bonds ;  and,  also,  that  horror  which  accompa- 
nies the  execution  or  the  thought  of  a  crime,  and  which  is 
perhaps  only  the  vague  sentiment  of  the  law  inscribed  by 
secular  heredity  in  the  Christian  conscience — all  this 
surged  confusedly  in  a  sort  of  vertiginous  whirl  which,  for 
a  second,  superseded  all  other  sentiment  in  his  soul,  and 
gave  him  an  aggressive  impulse.  The  very  aspect  of 
Diego,  his  thick-set  and  sanguine  body,  his  fallow  head  on 
the  bull-like  neck,  the  evident  physical  superiority  of  this 
robust,  muscular  fellow,  the  offence  against  his  authority 
as  the  elder — all  contributed  to  augment  his  fury.  He 
would  like  to  have  had  a  prompt  means  of  dominating, 
subjugating,  felling  this  brute,  without  resistance  and 
without  a  struggle.  Instinctively  he  looked  at  his  fists, 
those  large,  powerful  fists,  covered  with  a  reddish  down, 
which  at  dinner,  employed  in  the  service  of  a  voracious 


102  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

appetite,  had  already  caused  him  such  a  strong  repul- 
sion. 

"  Leave  the  room  !  Leave  the  room  immediately  !  "  he 
repeated  in  a  higher  and  more  commanding  key;  "  or  else 
ask  my  mother's  pardon  immediately." 

He  advanced  towards  Diego,  his  hand  extended  as  if  to 
grasp  an  arm. 

"  I  do  not  permit  anyone  to  give  me  orders,"  cried 
Diego,  at  last  looking  his  elder  brother  in  the  face. 

And,  beneath  his  low  forehead,  his  little  gray  eyes  ex- 
pressed a  resentment  which  had  been  brooding  for  years. 

"Take  care,  Diego  !  " 

"  You  don't  frighten  me." 

"Take  care!" 

"  Who  are  you,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  What  business  have 
you  here  ?  "  shouted  Diego  angrily.  "  You  have  no  right  to 
interfere.  You  are  a  stranger.  I  do  not  want  to  know  you. 
What  has  been  your  role  up  to  now  ?  You  have  never  done 
anything  for  anybody;  you  have  always  thought  only  of 
your  comfort,  and  your  interest.  The  caresses,  the  prefer- 
ences, the  adorations,  have  all  been  for  you.  What  do  you 
want  now  ?  Go  back  to  Rome  and  squander  your  heritage 
as  you  choose ;  but  don't  meddle  in  what  does  not  concern 
you." 

So  he  breathed  out  all  his  rancor,  all  his  jealousy,  all  his 
envious  hate  against  the  fortunate  brother  who,  in  the  great 
city  yonder,  lived  a  life  of  unknown  pleasures,  a  stranger  to 
his  family,  as  though  a  being  of  another  race,  favored  by  a 
thousand  privileges. 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !     Hold  your  tongue  !  " 

And  the  mother,  beside  herself,  and  throwing  herself 
between  them,  slapped  Diego's  face. 

"  Leave  the  room  !     Not  another  word  !     Get  out  of  here  ! 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  103 

Go  to  your  father !  I  don't  want  to  hear  you  any  more  ! 
I  don't  even  want  to  see  you  again  !  " 

Diego  hesitated,  shaken  by  the  quivering  of  fury,  perhaps 
only  waiting  for  a  gesture  from  his  brother  to  fling  himself 
on  him. 

"  Go !  "  repeated  the  mother,  at  the  end  of  her  energy. 

And  she  fell  fainting  into  Camille's  arms,  extended  to 
receive  her. 

Then  Diego  went  out,  livid  with  rage,  muttering  between 
his  teeth  a  word  which  George  did  not  understand,  and 
they  heard  his  heavy  steps  grow  fainter  as  he  passed  through 
the  gloomy  enfilade  of  rooms  in  which  the  daylight  was 
already  dying. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  a  rainy  evening.  Stretched  out  on  his  bed, 
George  felt  himself  so  broken  physically,  and  so  sad,  that 
he  had  given  up  thinking,  so  to  speak.  His  thoughts 
wavered,  vague  and  incoherent ;  but  his  sadness  was  modi- 
fied and  exasperated  by  the  influence  of  the  slightest  sensa- 
tions— occasional  words  pronounced  in  the  street  by  pass- 
ersby,  the  tick-tick  of  the  clock  on  the  wall,  the  tinkling 
of  a  distant  bell,  the  stamping  of  a  horse,  a  whistle,  the 
banging  of  a  door.  He  felt  alone,  isolated  from  the  rest 
of  the  world,  separated  from  his  own  anterior  existence  by 
the  abyss  of  incalculable  time.  His  imagination  repre- 
sented to  him,  in  an  indistinct  vision,  the  gesture  with  which 
his  mistress  had  lowered  her  black  veil  after  the  last  kiss; 
it  represented  to  him  the  child  with  the  crutch" collecting 
the  waxen  tears.  He  thought :  "  There  is  nothing  more 
left  to  me  but  to  die."  Without  definite  cause,  his  anguish 
increased  all  at  once,  and  became  unbearable.  The  palpi- 
tations of  his  heart  choked  him,  as  if  in  a  nightmare.  He 
threw  himself  from  his  bed  and  paced  up  and  down  his 
room,  distracted,  agitated,  incapable  of  containing  his 
anguish.  And  his  steps  resounded  in  his  brain. 

"Who  is  there?  Someone  calling  me?"  The  sound 
of  a  voice  rang  in  his  ear.  He  strained  his  ear  to  listen. 
He  heard  nothing  more.  He  opened  the  door,  walked  in 
the  corridor,  and  listened.  All  was  silent.  His  aunt's 
room  was  open,  and  lit  up.  A  strange  fear  seized  him,  a 


THE    PATERNAL   ROOF.  105 

sort  of  panicky  terror,  as  he  thought  that  he  might  all  at  once 
see  that  old  woman,  with  the  mask  of  a  cadaver,  appear  on 
the  threshold.  One  doubt  crossed  his  mind ;  she  was  per- 
haps dead,  seated  over  there  in  her  easy-chair,  motionless, 
her  chin  on  her  bosom — dead.  This  vision  had  the  clear- 
ness of  reality,  and  froze  him  with  veritable  fright.  He  did 
not  stir,  no  longer  dared  make  a  movement,  standing  still 
with  a  band  of  iron  around  his  head,  a  band  which,  like 
some  cold  and  elastic  substance,  expanded  and  contracted 
according  to  the  pulsation  of  his  arteries.  His  nerves 
tyrannized  him,  imposing  on  him  the  disorder,  the  excess, 
of  their  sensations.  The  old  woman  commenced  to  cough, 
and  that  made  him  start.  Then  he  retired  softly,  quietly, 
on  tiptoe,  so  as  not  to  be  heard. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  me  this  evening  ?  I  cannot  stay 
any  longer  alone  in  this  room.  I  must  go  down."  Besides, 
he  foresaw  that,  after  the  atrocious  scene,  it  would  be 
equally  impossible  for  him  to  bear  his  mother's  unhappy 
appearance.  "  I  will  go  out.  I  will  go  to  Christine's." 
What  prompted  him  to  make  this  visit  was  the  recollection 
of  the  touching  and  sad  hour  spent  with  his  sweet  sister  in 
the  garden. 

It  was  a  rainy  evening.  In  the  streets,  already  almost 
deserted,  the  few  gas-jets  threw  out  a  dull  glow.  From  a 
closed  bakery  came  the  voices  of  the  bakers  at  work,  and  an 
odor  of  bread ;  from  a  cabaret  came  the  sounds  of  a  guitar 
and  the  refrain  of  a  popular  air.  A  band  of  wandering 
dogs  ran  by  and  was  lost  in  the  sombre  alleys.  The  hour 
struck  in  the  belfry. 

By  degrees,  the  walk  in  the  open  air  calmed  his  exalta- 
tion. He  seemed  to  have  freed  himself  from  the  phantasies 
which  encumbered  his  conscience.  His  attention  was 
attracted  to  all  he  saw  and  heard.  He  stopped  to  listen  to 


106  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

the  sounds  cf  the  guitar,  to  smell  the  odor  of  the  bread. 
Someone  passed  in  the  shadow  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street,  and  he  thought  he  recognized  Diego.  Meeting 
him  caused  him  agitation ;  but  he  felt  that  all  his  rancor 
was  gone,  that  no  violence  remained  at  the  bottom  of  his 
sorrow.  Certain  of  his  brother's  words  came  back  to  his 
memory.  He  thought :  "  Who  knows  if  he  did  not  speak 
the  truth?  I  have  never  done  anything  for  anybody ;  I  have 
always  lived  for  myself  alone.  Here  I  am  a  stranger. 
Everyone  here  judges  me  perhaps  in  the  same  way.  My 
mother  said  :  '  You  see  now  the  life  we  lead  ?  You  see  now, 
don't  you  ? '  I  might  see  all  her  tears  flow,  and  still 
should  not  have  the  strength  to  save  her."  .  .  . 

He  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the  Celaia  palace.  He  entered, 
and  crossed  the  vestibule.  As  he  traversed  the  court,  he 
raised  his  eyes.  Not  a  light  was  visible  at  any  of  the  high 
windows ;  there  was  in  the  air  an  odor  of  rotten  straw ;  the 
tap  of  a  water-fountain  dripped  in  an  obscure  angle ;  be- 
neath the  portico,  beneath  an  image  of  the  Virgin  covered 
with  a  grating,  a  little  lantern  was  burning,  and  through 
the  grating,  at  the  feet  of  the  Virgin,  could  be  seen  a  bou- 
quet of  artificial  roses ;  the  steps  of  the  large  stairway  were 
hollowed  in  the  centre  by  usage,  like  those  of  an  antique 
altar,  and  every  hollow  in  the  stone  shone  with  yellowish 
reflections.  Everything  expressed  the  melancholy  of  the 
old,  hereditary  house  to  which  Don  Bartolomeo  Celaia,  left 
to  solitude,  and  arrived  at  the  threshold  of  old  age,  had 
conducted  his  bride  and  in  which  he  had  begotten  his  heir. 

As  he  went  upstairs,  George  saw  with  the  eyes  of  his  soul 
the  young,  pensive  wife  and  the  anaemic  child ;  he  saw  them 
in  the  distance,  at  a  chimerical  distance,  at  the  end  of  an 
out-of-the-way  room  to  which  nobody  could  penetrate.  For  a 
moment  he  had  the  idea  to  turn  back,  and  he  stopped,  per- 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  107 

plexed,  in  the  middle  of  the  high  and  silent  white  staircas6. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  indefinable  uneasiness.  Once  more  he 
had  lost  the  sense  of  the  present  reality;  he  felt  himself 
once  more  under  the  influence  of  a  vague  terror,  like  a  short 
time  before  in  the  corridor,  when  he  had  perceived  the  door 
open  and  the  room  empty.  But,  suddenly,  he  heard  a 
noise,  and  a  voice  as  if  someone  were  chasing  something ; 
and  a  gray  dog,  a  gaunt  and  dirty-looking  mongrel,  doubt- 
less driven  to  enter  the  house  by  hunger,  came  flying  down 
the  stairway  half  a  dozen  steps  at  a  time,  and  brushed  by 
him.  A  servant,  noisily  chasing  the  fugitive,  appeared  on 
the  landing. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  George,  visibly  agitated 
by  the  surprise. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  sir.  I  am  chasing  a  dog,  an  ugly;  dirty 
beast,  that  gets  into  the  house  every  night,  no  one  knows 
how,  just  like  a  ghost. ' ' 

This  trifling,  insignificant  fact,  combined  with  the  servant's 
words,  aroused  in  him  that  inexplicable  uneasiness  which 
resembled  the  confused  anguish  of  a  superstitious  presenti- 
ment. It  was  this  anguish  which  prompted  the  question  : 

"  Is  Luchino  well  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  thanks  to  God." 

"  Is  he  asleep  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  he  has  not  yet  gone  to  bed." 

Preceded  by  the  domestic,  he  crossed  the  large  rooms, 
which  seemed  almost  empty,  and  in  which  the  furniture,  old- 
fashioned  in  design,  was  placed  symmetrically.  Nothing 
indicated  the  presence  of  inhabitants,  as  if  the  rooms  had 
remained  closed  up  to  then.  And  he  said  to  himself  that 
Christine  could  not  love  this  dwelling,  since  she  had  not 
shed  over  it  the  grace  of  her  soul.  Everything  had  re- 
mained there  just  as  it  was,  in  the  same  order  in  which  the 


108  THE    TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

bride  found  it  on  entering  on  her  wedding-day,  in  the  same 
order  left  by  the  last  of  the  wives  of  the  house  of  Celaia. 

George's  unexpected  visit  delighted  his  sister,  who  was 
alone  and  preparing  to  put  the  child  to  bed. 

"  Oh !  George,  how  good  you  are  to  have  come  !  "  she 
exclaimed,  with  an  effusion  of  sincere  joy,  pressing  him  in 
her  arms,  and  kissing  his  forehead;  and  this  tenderness  had 
the  immediate  effect  of  dilating  her  brother's  depressed 
heart.  "  Look,  Luchino,  look;  there's  your  uncle  George. 
Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  him  ?  Come,  give  him  a  kiss." 

A  feeble  smile  appeared  upon  the  child's  pale  mouth ; 
and  as  he  had  lowered  his  head,  his  long,  blond  eyelashes 
were  lit  up  from  above  and  threw  their  trembling  shadow  on 
his  blanched  cheeks. 

George  took  him  in  his  arms,  unable  to  prevent  a  sensa- 
tion of  profound  emotion  in  feeling  beneath  his  hands  the 
leanness  of  the  child's  chest,  in  which  beat  so  debilitated 
a  heart.  And  he  was  almost  afraid,  as  if  his  slight  pressure 
were  sufficient  to  extinguish  the  pitiful  little  life.  He  felt 
both  fear  and  pity,  as  he  used  to  do  in  his  boyhood  when  he 
held  a  little  scared  bird  prisoner  in  his  hand. 

"  Light  as  a  feather  !  "  he  said. 

The  emotion  which  trembled  in  his  voice  did  not  escape 
Christine. 

He  seated  the  child  on  his  knees,  caressed  his  head,  and 
asked  him : 

"  Do  you  love  me  very  much  ?  " 

His  heart  was  filled  with  unusual  tenderness.  He  felt  a 
melancholy  desire  to  see  the  poor,  sickly  child  smile,  to 
see  his  cheeks  tinted  at  least  once  a  fleeting  rouge,  to  see  a 
light  effusion  of  blood  beneath  the  diaphanous  skin. 

"  What  have  you  here  ?  "  he  asked,  seeing  a  finger  wrapped 
up  in  linen. 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  109 

"He  cut  himself  the  other  day,"  said  Christine,  whose 
attentive  eyes  followed  her  brother's  slightest  gestures.  "  A 
slight  cut,  but  it  is  obstinate  in  healing." 

"  Let  me  see,  Luchino,"  said  George,  prompted  by  a 
painful  curiosity,  but  smiling  to  call  forth  a  smile.  "  I 
will  cure  it  by  blowing  on  it." 

The  child,  surprised,  permitted  the  bandage  to  be  re- 
moved from  his  finger.  Watched  anxiously  by  his  sister, 
George  took  infinite  precautions  in  untying  it.  The  end  of 
the  linen  had  adhered  to  the  slight  wound,  and  he  had  not 
the  heart  to  detach  it ;  but  at  the  edge  exposed  to  view  he 
saw  appear  a  whitish  drop,  resembling  whey.  His  lips 
trembled.  He  raised  his  eyes ;  he  saw  that  the  face  of 
his  sister,  intent  on  his  every  movement,  had  undergone  a 
change  and  was  contracted  by  grief.  He  felt  that  at  that 
moment  the  poor  woman's  soul  was  wholly  concentrated  in 
that  little  hand. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  he  said.  And  he  forced  a  smile,  as  he 
breathed  on  the  cut,  to  give  the  illusion  to  the  child,  who 
was  waiting  for  the  miracle.  Then  he  rebound  the  finger 
with  infinite  care.  He  thought  once  more  of  the  strange 
anguish  which  had  seized  him  on  the  deserted  staircase,  of 
the  chase  after  the  dog,  of  the  servant's  words,  of  the  ques- 
tions which  a  superstitious  fear  had  suggested  to  him,  of  all. 
his  baseless  anxiety. 

Noticing  how  absorbed  he  was,  Christine  said  to  him : 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

Then,  all  at  once,  without  thinking,  without  having  any 
other  intention  than  to  say  something  which  would  arouse 
the  attention  of  the  already  sleepy  child,  he  said : 

"  Do  you  know,  I  met  a  dog  on  the  staircase." 

The  child  opened  wide  his  eyes. 


110  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

"  A  dog  which  comes  every  night." 

"  Yes,"  said  Christine,  "  Gian  spoke  to  me  about  it." 

But  she  stopped  at  the  appearance  of  the  dilated  and 
terrified  eyes  of  the  child,  who  was  on  the  point  of  bursting 
into  sobs. 

"No,  no,  Luchino;  no,  no,  it's  not  true,"  she  cried, 
lifting  him  from  George's  knees,  and  pressing  him  to  her 
bosom.  "  No,  it's  not  true.  Your  uncle  said  that  for 
fun." 

"  It's  not  true,  it's  not  true,"  repeated  George,  rising 
in  consternation  at  these  tears,  which  no  other  child  would 
weep,  for  they  seemed  to  ravage  the  poor  creature. 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  mother  in  a  coaxing  tone; 
"  Luchino's  going  to  bed  now,  isn't  he  ?  " 

She  passed  into  the  adjoining  room,  still  caressing  and 
rocking  her  weeping  child. 

"  Come,  too,  George." 

While  she  undressed  the  child,  George  watched  her.  She 
undressed  him  slowly,  with  infinite  precautions,  as  if  she 
were  afraid  to  break  him ;  and  each  of  his  gestures  showed 
sadly  the  wretchedness  of  his  slender  limbs,  which  already 
began  to  show  the  deformities  of  an  incurable  rachitis. 
The  neck  was  long  and  flexible,  like  a  withered  stem ;  the 
breastplate,  the  ribs,  the  shoulder-blades,  almost  visible 
through  the  skin,  making  a  projection  which  the  shadows 
cast  in  the  hollowed  parts  accentuated  even  more  strongly; 
the  enlarged  knees  appeared  to  be  knotted ;  the  abdomen 
somewhat  swollen,  the  navel  projecting,  rendering  still 
more  prominent  the  angular  leanness  of  the  hips.  When 
the  child  raised  its  arms  while  the  mother  changed  its 
chemise,  George  felt  a  painful  pity,  almost  an  anguish,  on 
perceiving  the  fragile  little  arm-pits,  which,  in  this  simple 
$ct,  appeared  to  express  the  difficulty  of  an  effort  required 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  HI 

to  overcome  the  deathly  languor  in  which  this  feeble  life 
was  on  the  point  of  being  extinguished. 

"  Kiss  him,"  said  Christine  to  George.  And  she  held 
the  child  out  to  him,  before  putting  him  beneath  the  bed- 
clothes. Then  she  took  the  child's  hands,  carried  that 
having  the  bandaged  finger  from  the  face  to  the  chest,  then 
from  the  left  to  the  right  shoulder,  to  make  the  sign  of  the 
cross  ;  and  then  she  joined  them,  saying  :  Amen. 

In  all  this  there  was  a  funereal  solemnness.  The  child, 
in  his  long  white  night-shirt,  had  already  the  appearance 
of  a  little  corpse. 

"  Sleep,  now;  sleep,  my  love.     We  will  stay  near  you." 

The  brother  and  sister,  united  once  more  in  the  same 
sorrow,  sat  down  one  on  each  side  of  his  bed. 

They  spoke  no  more.  The  odor  of  the  medicines  heaped 
together  on  a  table  near  the  bed  pervaded  the  room.  A 
fly  detached  itself  from  the  wall,  flew  with  a  loud  buzz 
towards  the  flame  of  the  lamp,  and  alighted  on  the  coverlid. 
A  piece  of  furniture  creaked  in  the  heavy  silence. 

"  He  is  falling  asleep,"  said  George  in  a  low  voice. 

Both  were  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  child's 
slumber,  which  suggested  to  both  the  image  of  death.  A 
species  of  oppressive  stupor  dominated  them,  without  their 
being  able  to  distract  their  thoughts  from  the  picture. 

An  indefinite  time  passed. 

Suddenly  the  child  gave  a  frightful  cry,  opened  wide  his 
eyes,  raised  himself  on  his  pillow  as  if  terrified  by  some 
horrible  vision. 

"Mamma!     Mamma!" 

"  What  is  it,  what  is  it,  my  love  ?  " 

' '  Mamma  ! ' ' 

"  What  is  it,  my  love  ?     I  am  here." 

"  Chase  it  away  !     Chase  it  away  !  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT  supper,  at  which  Diego  had  abstained  from  showing 
himself,  had  not  Camille  repeated  the  accusation  in  a 
veiled  form  when  she  said,  "  When  the  eyes  do  not  see 
the  heart  does  not  suffer"  ?  And,  in  his  mother's  words, 
— oh,  how  quickly  his  mother  had  forgotten  the  tears  with 
which  the  conversation  at  the  window  had  ended, — even 
in  his  mother's  words,  had  the  accusation  not  cropped  up 
several  times  ? 

George  thought,  not  without  bitterness :  "  Everybody 
here  judges  me  in  the  same  way.  In  short,  nobody  forgives 
me  either  for  my  voluntary  renunciation  of  my  rights  as  the 
eldest,  or  for  the  inheritance  left  me  by  my  uncle  Deme- 
trius. I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  home  to  look  after  the 
conduct  of  my  father  and  my  brother,  to  defend  the  do- 
mestic happiness  !  According  to  them,  nothing  would  have 
happened  if  I  had  remained  here.  Consequently,  I  am  the 
guilty  one,  and  this  is  the  expiation."  The  farther  he 
advanced  in  the  direction  of  the  suburban  villa  to  which  the 
enemy  had  retired  and  towards  which  he  had  been  pushed  by 
extreme  measures,  by  merciless  cudgel  blows,  so  to  speak, 
the  more  he  felt  the  weight  of  a  kind  of  vexatious  oppres- 
sion, the  indignation  provoked  by  an  unjust  compulsion. 

He  was,  in  fact,  in  his  own  eyes  the  victim  of  cruel  and 
implacable  persons,  who  were  unwilling  to  spare  him  any 
kind  of  torture.  And  the  recollection  of  certain  phrases 
uttered  by  his  mother  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window  on 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  113 

the  day  of  the  funeral,  amid  their  joint  tears,  augmented 
his  bitterness,  soured  his  irony  :  "  No,  George,  no  !  It  is 
not  for  you  to  suffer !  I  ought  to  have  said  nothing.  I 
shouldn't  have  told  you.  Don't  cry  any  more.  I  can't 
bear  to  see  you  cry."  And,  nevertheless,  since  that  day 
no  kind  of  torture  had  been  spared  him.  That  little  scene 
had  not  made  any  change  in  his  mother's  attitude  towards 
him.  The  following  day,  and  ever  since,  she  had  been  just 
as  angry  and  violent;  she  had  insisted  on  his  listening 
over  and  over  again  to  old  and  new  accusations,  aggravated 
by  a  thousand  odious  particulars ;  she  had  morally  forced 
him  to  count  on  her  face,  one  by  one,  the  marks  of  the 
suffering  endured;  she  had  almost  said  to  him  :  "  See  how 
my  eyes  are  scorched  by  tears ;  how  deep  my  wrinkles  have 
become  ;  how  white  my  hair  has  grown  at  the  temples.  And 
what  would  it  be  could  I  show  you  my  heart  ?  "  What  had 
been  the  good,  therefore,  of  the  grief  of  the  other  day  ? 
Was  it  necessary  for  his  mother  to  see  burning  tears  shed 
to  be  moved  to  pity  ?  Then  she  did  not  appreciate  the 
cruelty  of  the  pain  she  inflicted  uselessly  on  her  son  ? 
"  Oh,  how  rare  on  earth  are  those  beings  who  know  how  to 
suffer  in  silence  and  accept  the  sacrifice  with  a  smile  !  " 
Still  disturbed  and  exasperated  by  the  recent  excesses  of 
which  he  had  been  an  involuntary  witness,  already  per- 
vaded by  the  horror  of  the  decisive  act  which  he  was  pre- 
paring to  accomplish,  he  had  thus  come  to  despise  his 
mother  to  the  point  of  complaining  that  she  did  not  know 
how  to  suffer  with  sufficient  perfection. 

The  farther  he  advanced  on  his  way  (he  had  not  wished 
to  take  the  carriage,  and  had  started  on  foot,  so  as  to  be  free 
to  lengthen  at  his  will  the  time  of  the  journey,  and  perhaps, 
also,  to  have  the  possibility,  at  the  last  moment,  of  retracing 
his  steps,  or  to  lose  himself  on  the  country  roads) — the 


114  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

farther  he  advanced,  he  felt  grow  that  indomitable  horror; 
so  much  so,  that  finally  it  surmounted  every  other  sentiment 
and  masked  every  other  thought.  The  one  image  of  his 
father  occupied  his  mind,  and  with  the  relief  of  an  actual 
figure.  And  he  began  to  imagine  the  scene  which  would 
take  place  soon — he  studied  the  countenance  which  he 
would  assume,  prepared  his  first  sentences,  lost  himself  in 
improbable  hypotheses,  explored  the  most  distant  memories 
of  his  childhood  and  adolescence,  tried  to  represent  the 
successive  attitudes  of  his  soul  towards  his  father  during 
the  successive  periods  of  his  past  life.  He  thought :  "  Per- 
haps I  have  never  loved  him."  And,  in  fact,  in  not  one  of 
his  clearest  recollections  did  he  find  a  spontaneous  move- 
ment of  confidence,  or  a  warm  effusion  of  tenderness,  or  an 
intimate  and  agreeable  emotion.  What  he  did  find,  in 
the  memories  of  his  early  childhood,  was  a  continual  fear 
which  oppressed  all  affection — the  fear  of  corporal  punish- 
ment, of  cross  words  followed  by  blows.  "  I  have  never 
loved  him."  Demetrius  had  been  his  real  father;  he  was 
his  sole  and  only  parent. 

And  he  appeared  to  his  mind,  a  mild,  meditative  man, 
with  a  face  full  of  a  virile  melancholy,  and  a  single  white 
curl  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead  among  the  black  hair, 
giving  him  an  odd  appearance. 

As  always,  the  image  of  the  dead  man  solaced  him  imme- 
diately and  banished  from  his  mind  the  things  which  had 
just  preoccupied  him.  His  uneasiness  became  composed, 
his  bitterness  disappeared,  and  his  repugnance  gave  place 
to  a  new  sensation  of  tranquil  security.  What  had  he  to 
fear  ?  Why  did  his  imagination  exaggerate  so  childishly  the 
suffering  which  awaited  him  and  which  henceforth  was  in- 
evitable ?  And  once  more  he  had  the  intimate  conscious- 
ness that  he  had  radically  transported  himself  from  his 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  11$ 

present  life,  from  the  present  state  of  his  being,  from  the 
contingencies  which  had  most  troubled  him.  Once  more, 
under  the  influence  that  his  uncle  exercised  on  him  from  the 
depth  of  his  tomb,  he  felt  himself  enveloped  by  a  sort  of 
isolating  atmosphere,  and  lost  the  precise  notion  of  what 
had  occurred  and  what  was  still  going  to  occur ;  the  real 
events  seemed  to  be  divested  of  all  significance  as  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  and  to  have  but  a  momentary  importance. 
It  was  like  the  resignation  of  a  man  whom  fatality  obliged  to 
submit  to  a  trial  in  order  to  attain  the  future  deliverance  of 
which  his  soul  had  already  had  the  prevision  and  certitude. 

This  interruption  of  internal  care,  this  singular  respite 
which  he  had  obtained  without  effort  and  which  did  not 
surprise  him,  permitted  his  eyes  to  be  opened  finally  to  the 
spectacle  of  the  solitary  and  magnificent  landscape.  The 
attention  he  gave  to  it  was  calm  and  serene.  In  the  aspect 
of  the  country  he  believed  he  recognized  a  symbol  of  his 
own  sentiments  and  a  visible  imprint  of  his  thoughts. 

It  was  the  afternoon.  A  clear  and  liquid  sky  bathed  all 
the  terrestrial  objects  in  its  own  color,  and  appeared  to 
subtilize  all  matter  by  an  infinitely  slow  penetration.  The 
various  forms  of  vegetation,  distinct  close  by,  became 
effaced  in  the  distance,  lost  by  degrees  their  contours,  ap- 
peared to  evaporate  at  the  top,  tended  to  become  combined 
into  a  single  form,  immense  and  confused,  which  a  single 
rhythmic  respiration  would  animate.  Little  by  little,  be- 
neath a  deluge  of  azure,  the  hills  became  equal  in  size, 
and  the  depths  of  the  valley  took  on  the  appearance  of  a 
peaceful  gulf  which  reflected  the  sky.  From  this  united 
gulf  the  isolated  mass  of  the  mountain  soared  up,  opposing 
to  the  liquid  space  the  immovable  solidity  of  its  ridges, 
which  the  whiteness  of  the  snows  illumined  with  an  almost 
supernatural  light. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AT  last  the  villa  appeared,  between  the  trees,  close  by, 
with  its  two  broad  lateral  terraces  provided  with  balus- 
trades supported  by  little  stone  pilasters,  and  ornamented 
with  terra-cotta  vases  in  the  shape  of  busts  representing 
kings  and  queens  upon  whose  heads  the  sharp  points  of  the 
aloes  formed  living  crowns. 

The  view  of  these  coarse  reddish  figures,  several  of 
which  stood  out  clearly  outlined  against  the  luminous  azure, 
suddenly  awakened  in  George  new  memories  of  his  dis- 
tant childhood,  confused  recollections  of  rural  recreations, 
of  sports,  of  races,  of  romances  imagined  concerning  these 
motionless  and  deaf  kings,  in  whose  hearts  of  clay  the  tena- 
cious plants  had  fastened  their,  roots.  He  even  recalled 
that  he  had  long  had  a  predilection  for  a  queen  whose  thick 
and  long  hair  was  formed  by  the  hanging  foliage  of  a  fertile 
plant,  which,  in  Spring,  dotted  it  with  innumerable  golden 
flowerets.  He  looked  for  her  with  curiosity,  while  in  his 
mind  he  multiplied  the  images  of  the  obscure  and  intense 
life  with  which  his  childish  phantasy  had  animated  her.  As 
he  recognized  her  on  a  corner  pilaster,  he  smiled  as  if  he 
had  recognized  a  friend;  and,  for  several  seconds,  all  his 
soul  inclined  towards  the  irrevocable  past  with  an  agitation 
which  was  not  without  sweetness.  Thanks  to  the  final  res- 
olution which  had  assumed  shape  in  him  since  his  unex- 
pected calmness  in  the  midst  of  the  pale  green  and  silent 
country,  he  found  now  in  his  sensations  a  forgotten  savor, 
and  took  pleasure  in  tracing,  to  its  most  remote  sinuosities, 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  llf 

the  course  of  his  own  existence,  so  close,  thenceforth,  to 
the  end  determined  upon.  This  curiosity  for  the  manifes- 
tations, even  the  most  fugitive,  that  his  being  had  dispersed 
in  the  past,  this  agitated  sympathy  for  the  things  with 
which  he  had  formerly  been  in  affinity,  tended  to  change 
into  a  languishing,  tearful,  and  almost  feminine  tenderness. 
But,  when  he  heard  voices  near  the  railing,  he  shook  off  this 
languor ;  and  when  he  perceived  an  open  window  at  which 
the  cage  of  a  canary-bird  hung  between  the  white  curtains, 
he  came  back  to  the  sentiment  of  the  present  reality,  and 
felt  anew  his  previous  anguish.  The  surroundings  were  calm, 
and  one  could  distinctly  hear  the  singing  of  the  imprisoned 
bird. 

"  My  visit  is  unexpected,"  he  said  to  himself,  his  heart 
sinking.  "If  that  woman  should  be  with  him  ?"  Near 
the  railing  he  saw  the  children  playing  in  the  sand ;  and, 
without  having  time  to  observe  them,  he  guessed  they  were 
his  adulterine  brothers,  the  sons  of  the  concubine.  He 
advanced ;  and  the  two  children  turned  round,  began  to  gaze 
at  him  with  astonishment,  but  without  intimidation. 
Healthy,  robust,  nourishing,  with  cheeks  crimson  with 
health,  they  bore  the  manifest  imprint  of  their  origin.  The 
sight  of  them  upset  him  ;  an  irresistible  terror  assailed  him  ; 
he  had  the  idea  of  hiding  himself,  to  turn  back,  to  flee; 
and  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  window,  with  the  fear  of  per- 
ceiving between  the  curtains  the  face  of  his  father  or  that 
of  the  odious  woman  of  whose  perfidies,  covetousness,  tur- 
pitudes, he  had  so  often  been  told. 

"  Ah,  you  here,  sir  ?  " 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  domestic,  who  came  to  meet  him. 
At  the  same  time  his  father  cried  to  him  from  the  window : 

"  Is  that  you,  George  ?     What  a  surprise  !  " 

He  resummoned  his  courage,  composed  his  face  into  a 


IlS  THE   TRIUMPH   OP   DEATH. 

smile,  and  tried  to  assume  an  air  of  unconcern.  He  had 
felt  that  already,  between  his  father  and  himself,  had 
just  been  reestablished  those  artificial  relations,  almost 
ceremonious  in  form,  which  they  had  used  for  several  years 
towards  one  another  in  order  to  hide  their  embarrassment 
when  they  found  themselves  in  immediate  and  inevitable 
contact.  And  he  had  felt,  besides,  that  his  will  had  just 
totally  left  him,  and  that  he  would  never  be  capable  to 
expose  frankly  the  true  motive  of  his  unexpected  visit. 

"  Aren't  you  coming  up  ?  "  said  his  father  to  him,  from 
the  window. 

"  Yes,  I  am  coming  up." 

He  would  have  liked  to  make  believe  that  he  had  not 
noticed  the  two  children.  He  started  to  go  up  by  the 
open-air  stairway  leading  to  one  of  the  large  terraces.  His 
father  came  to  meet  him.  They  embraced.  There  always 
was  in  his  father's  manner  a  manifest  ostentation  of  affec- 
tion. 

"  So  you  finally  decided  to  come  ?  " 

"  I  wanted  a  walk,  and  it  landed  me  here.  I  have  not 
seen  the  place  for  so  long !  It's  just  as  it  always  was,  it 
seems." 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  asphalt-covered  terrace ;  he 
examined  the  busts,  one  after  the  other,  with  more  curiosity 
than  was  natural. 

"  You're  almost  always  here  now,  aren't  you  ?  "  he  said, 
in  order  to  say  something,  to  escape  the  embarrassing  inter- 
vals of  silence  which  he  foresaw  would  grow  longer  and 
more  frequent. 

"  Yes;  I  come  here  often  now,  and  stay  here,"  replied 
his  father,  with  a  shade  of  sadness  in  his  voice  which  sur- 
prised his  son.  "  I  believe  the  air  does  me  good — since  ray 
heart  began  to  trouble  me." 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  119 

"  Is  your  heart  affected  ?  "  cried  George,  turning  towards 
him  with  sincere  emotion,  struck  by  the  unexpectedness  of 
the  news.  "  How  ?  Since  when  ?  I  never  knew  anything 
of  it — nobody  has  ever  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  me." 

He  looked  now  at  his  father's  face,  in  the  strong  light 
shed  by  the  sun's  oblique  rays  and  reflected  by  the  wall, 
and  fancied  he  could  detect  the  symptoms  of  the  mortal 
malady.  And  it  was  with  sympathetic  compassion  that  he 
remarked  the  deep  wrinkles,  the  swollen,  worried-looking 
eyes,  the  white  hairs  that  bristled  on  the  unshaven  cheeks 
and  chin,  his  mustache  and  hair  to  which  the  dye  gave 
an  indefinite  color  between  a  greenish  and  a  violet,  the 
thick  lips  through  which  the  respiration  came  like  the  gasp- 
ing of  asthma,  the  short  neck  which  appeared  to  be  colored 
by  an  extravasation  of  blood. 

"Since  when?"  he  repeated,  without  concealing  his 
anxiety. 

And  he  felt  his  repugnance  to  this  man  diminish  as  a 
rapid  succession  of  images,  clear, almost  as  the  reality 
might  be,  represented  him  beneath  the  menace  of  death, 
disfigured  by  the  death  agony. 

"  Does  one  ever  know  when  it  begins  ?"  answered  his 
father,  who,  in  the  presence  of  his  son's  sincere  emotion, 
exaggerated  his  suffering  in  order  to  sustain  and  increase  a 
pity  by  which  he  might  succeed  perhaps  in  profiting.  "  Can 
one  ever  tell  when  it  begins  ?  These  kind  of  maladies 
breed  for  years;  and  then,  one  fine  day,  suddenly  make 
their  presence  felt.  Then  there  is  no  remedy.  One  must 
be  resigned,  await  the  end  from  one  minute  to  another " 

Speaking  in  this  strain,  in  a  changed  voice,  he  seemed 
to  lose  his  hardness  and  massive  brutality,  to  become 
older,  more  feeble,  more  of  a  physical  and  moral  wreck. 
It  was  like  a  sudden  dissolution  of  his  entire  person,  yet 


120  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

with  an  artificiality,  exaggeration,  and  theatricalism  which 
did  not  escape  George's  perspicacity.  And  the  young 
man  thought  instantly  of  those  comedians  who,  on  the 
stage,  have  the  facility  of  instantly  undergoing  a  metamor- 
phosis, as  they  take  off  and  replace  a  mask.  He  had 
even  a  sudden  intuition  of  what  was  about  to  follow.  With- 
out doubt,  his  father  had  divined  the  motive  of  this  unex- 
pected visit ;  and  now  he  sought  to  obtain  some  useful 
effect  by  the  exhibition  of  his  malady.  Doubtless,  too,  he 
purposed  to  attain  some  definite  object.  What  was  that 
object  ?  George  felt  no  indignation,  no  internal  anger;  he 
made  no  preparation,  either,  to  defend  himself  against  the 
ambush  which  he  foresaw  with  such  certitude ;  on  the  con- 
trary, his  inertia  increased  in  proportion  to  his  lucidity. 
And  he  waited  for  the  comedy  to  follow  its  course,  ready  to 
accept  all  that  might  happen,  sad  and  resigned. 

"  Will  you  come  in  ?  "  said  his  father. 

"  If  you  like." 

"  Very  well.  Let  us  go  in.  I  have  some  papers  I  wish 
to  show  you." 

The  father  passed  in  first,  directing  his  steps  towards  the 
room  the  open  window  of  which  shed  over  the  entire  villa 
the  singing  of  the  canary-bird.  George  followed  him, 
without  looking  around.  He  perceived  that  his  father  had 
also  changed  his  walk,  so  as  to  simulate  fatigue ;  and  it 
gave  him  a  poignant  chagrin  to  think  of  the  degrading 
impostures  of  which  he  would  soon  be  the  spectator  and 
the  victim.  He  felt  in  the  house  the  presence  of  the  con- 
cubine ;  he  was  sure  tnat  she  was  hidden  in  some  room, 
that  she  was  listening,  that  she  was  spying.  He  thought : 
"  What  papers  is  he  going  to  show  me  ?  What  does  he 
expect  to  get  from  me  ?  He  doubtless  wants  money.  He 
is  taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity."  And  he  thought 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  121 

he  could  still  hear  certain  of  his  mother's  invectives ;  he 
recalled  certain  and  almost  unbelievable  particularities 
which  he  had  learned  from  her.  "  What  shall  I  do  ? 
What  shall  I  say  ?  " 

The  canary  in  its  cage  sang  in  a  limpid  and  strong  voice, 
varying  its  modulations;  and  the  white  curtains  puffed  out 
like  two  sails,  permitting  a  view  of  the  distant  azure.  The 
breeze  disturbed  some  of  the  papers  that  littered  the 
table ;  and  on  this  table  George  perceived,  in  a  crystal 
disk  which  served  as  a  paper-weight,  a  licentious  vignette. 

"What  a  bad  day  I  have  had  to-day,"  murmured  his 
father,  who,  affecting  to  be  tormented  by  palpitation  of  the 
heart,  dropped  heavily  into  a  chair,  half-closed  his  eyelids, 
and  began  to  breathe  like  an  asthmatic. 

"  Are  you  suffering  ?  "  said  George,  almost  timidly,  not 
knowing  if  the  suffering  were  real  or  simulated,  nor  what 
face  he  should  put  upon  the  matter. 

"  Yes — but  it  will  pass  in  a  moment.  As  soon  as  I  have 
the  slightest  excitement,  the  least  anxiety,  I  feel  worse. 
I  need  quiet  and  rest.  And,  on  the  contrary " 

He  began  again  to  speak  in  that  mournful,  complaining 
tone  which,  owing  to  a  vague  resemblance  in  accent, 
awoke  in  George  the  recollection  of  his  aunt  Joconda,  the 
poor  idiot,  when  she  tried  to  excite  his  pity  in  order  to  get 
sweetmeats.  The  feint  was  now  so  evident,  so  vulgar,  so 
ignoble,  and,  in  spite  of  all,  there  was  so  much  human 
misery  in  the  condition  of  this  man,  reduced  to  such  base 
means  to  satisfy  his  implacable  vice,  there  was  so  much 
true  suffering  in  the  expression  of  his  lying  face,  that  it  ap- 
peared to  George  that  not  one  of  the  sorrows  of  his  past  life 
was  comparable  with  the  horrible  anguish  of  that  present 
moment. 

"On    the    contrary?"    he    echoed,   to   encourage   his 


122  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

father  to  continue,  as  if  to  hasten  the  end  of  his  own 
torture. 

"  On  the  contrary,  for  some  time  everything  has  been 
going  from  bad  to  worse,  and  catastrophes  succeed  one 
another  without  cease.  I  have  had  considerable  losses. 
Three  bad  consecutive  years,  the  failure  of  the  vines,  the 
devastated  flocks,  the  rents  reduced  by  half,  the  taxes  in- 
creased in  enormous  proportions —  Look  here.  Here  are 
the  papers  I  wished  to  show  you." 

And  he  took  from  the  table  a  bundle  of  papers,  spread 
them  out  before  his  son's  eyes,  began  to  explain  confusedly 
a  number  of  very  involved  business  matters  relative  to 
unpaid  landed  taxes  which  had  accumulated  during  several 
months.  It  was  absolutely  necessary  that  he  make  a  set- 
tlement at  once,  in  order  to  avoid  incalculable  injury. 
Their  effects  had  already  been  attached,  and  at  any  moment 
the  bills  of  sale  might  be  posted.  What  could  be  done 
to  remove  the  momentary  embarrassment  in  which  he  found 
himself  without  any  fault  of  his  own  ?  The  amount  in- 
volved was  considerable.  What  could  be  done  ? 

George  was  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  papers  which  his 
father  was  turning  over  in  his  puffed-up,  almost  monstrous 
hand,  with  its  visible  pores,  and  white  with  a  pallor  that 
made  a  singular  contrast  with  his  sanguine  face.  At  in- 
tervals he  lost  the  sound  of  the  words;  but  in  his  ear  still 
sounded  the  monotony  of  that  voice  in  contrast  with  the 
shrill  singing  of  the  canary  and  the  intermittent  cries  which 
rose  from  the  path  where  the  two  little  bastards  were  still 
doubtless  playing  in  the  sand.  The  curtains  stirred  in  the 
windows  when  an  unusually  strong  breeze  swelled  their  folds. 
And  all  these  voices,  all  these  sounds,  bore  an  inexpressible 
expression  of  sadness  for  the  silent  visitor,  who  regarded 
with  a  sort  of  stupor  these  bailiffs'  writs  over  which  passed 


THE   PATERNAL   ROOF.  12$ 

that  swollen,  pale  hand,  with  its  small,  apparent  scars  left 
by  blood-letting.  An  image  surged  through  his  memory, 
a  strangely  distinct  remembrance  of  his  childhood :  his 
father  was  near  a  window,  his  face  grave,  his  shirt-sleeve 
rolled  up  on  one  arm,  which  he  held  plunged  in  a  basin 
of  water ;  and  the  water  was  reddened  by  the  flow  of  blood 
from  the  open  vein ;  and  by  his  side  stood  the  surgeon, 
watching  the  flow  of  blood  and  holding  the  bandages 
ready  for  the  ligature.  One  image  recalled  another.  He 
saw  the  bright  lances  in  the  green  leather  case;  he  saw  his 
mother  carrying  from  the  room  a  basin  full  of  blood ;  he 
saw  the  hand  held  in  a  sling  by  a  black  ribbon  which  was 
crossed  on  his  fleshy,  soft  back,  sinking  into  it  a  little. 
Noticing  his  pensiveness,  his  father  asked  him  : 

"  Are  you  listening  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  listening." 

At  that  moment,  the  father  perhaps  expected  a  sponta- 
neous offer.  Disappointed,  he  made  a  slight  pause ;  then, 
surmounting  his  embarrassment,  said  : 

"  Bartolomeo  could  save  me  if  he  gave  me  the  amount." 

He  hesitated,  and  his  physiognomy  took  on  an  indefinable 
expression  in  which  the  son  believed  he  recognized  the  last 
symptom  of  a  modesty  vanquished  by  the  almost  desperate 
necessity  of  attaining  his  object. 

"  He  would  give  me  this  sum  for  a  note,  but — I  believe 
he  would  require  your  signature." 

At  last  the  trap  was  sprung. 

"Ah!  my  signature,"  stammered  George,  embarrassed, 
not  at  the  demand,  but  at  the  odious  name  of  this  brother- 
in-law,  whom  the  maternal  accusations  had  already  presented 
to  him  as  a  bird  of  ill  omen,  eager  to  prey  upon  the  re- 
mains of  the  house  of  the  Aurispas. 

And  as  he  remained  perplexed  and  gloomy,  without  say- 


124  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

ing  anything,  the  father,  fearing  a  refusal,  laid  aside  all 
reserve,  and  had  recourse  to  supplications. 

That  was  the  only  way  now  to  avoid  a  disastrous  judi- 
cial sale  which  would  certainly  determine  all  his  other 
creditors  to  swoop  down  on  him.  Disaster  would  be  in- 
evitable. Did  his  son  wish  to  be  a  witness  of  his  ruin  ? 
Or,  did  he  not  understand  that,  by  interposing  in  this 
instance,  he  would  act  for  his  own  interest  and  protect  a 
heritage  which  was  soon  to  come  to  his  brother  and  himself? 

"  Oh  !  It  won't  be  so  long;  it  will  come  from  one  day 
to  the  other,  perhaps  to-morrow  ! ' ' 

And  he  began  again  to  speak  of  his  incurable  malady,  of 
the  continual  peril  that  threatened  him,  of  his  worries  and 
troubles  that  were  hastening  the  hour  of  his  death. 

At  the  end  of  his  strength,  unable  to  stand  longer  that 
voice  and  this  scene,  yet  restrained  nevertheless  by  the 
thought  of  his  other  executioners — those  who  had  forced 
him  to  this  place  and  who  now  awaited  him  to  demand  an 
account  of  his  mission — George  stammered  : 

"  But  will  you  really  use  this  money  for  the  purpose  you 
have  stated  ? ' ' 

"  So  !  you  too,  you  too !  "  cried  his  father,  who,  beneath 
an  apparent  explosion  of  sorrow,  repressed  clumsily  one  of 
his  violent  fits.  "  So  they  have  been  telling  you,  too, 
what  is  always  being  gossiped  about  everywhere — that  I  am 
a  monster,  that  I  have  committed  every  crime,  that  I  am 
capable  of  every  infamy.  And  you  have  believed  it,  too  ! 
Why,  why  do  they  hate  me  to  this  extent,  in  that  house 
yonder  ?  Why  do  they  desire  my  death  ?  Oh  !  you  don't 
know  how  much  your  mother  hates  me  !  If  you  went  back 
to  her  now  and  told  her  that  you  had  left  me  in  my  death 
agony,  she  would  kiss  you  and  say,  '  God  be  praised  I ' 
Oh  !  you  don't  know." 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  125 

In  the  brutality  of  his  tone,  in  the  peculiar  expression  of 
his  mouth,  which  added  bitterness  to  his  words,  in  the  vehe- 
ment respiration  which  dilated  his  nostrils,  in  the  irritated 
redness  of  his  eyes,  the  real  man  was  exposed  in  spite  of 
himself;  and  against  this  man  the  son  felt  a  new  impulse 
of  his  primitive  aversion,  an  impulse  so  sudden  and  so  im- 
petuous that,  without  reflecting,  by  a  desire  to  appease  his 
father  and  to  be  freed  from  him,  he  interrupted  him,  saying 
in  a  convulsed  voice  : 

"  No,  no;  I  know  nothing.  Tell  me,  what  must  I  do  ? 
Where  must  I  sign  ? ' ' 

And  he  arose  dismayed,  approached  the  window,  re- 
turned to  his  father.  He  saw  him  seek  something  in  a 
drawer,  with  a  species  of  nervous  impatience ;  he  saw  him 
lay  on  the  table  a  promissory  note  not  yet  made  out. 

"Here.     Place  your  signature  here ;  that  will  do " 

And,  with  his  enormous  index,  whose  fiat  nail  sank  into 
the  folds  of  flesh,  he  pointed  to  the  place  for  the  signature. 

Without  sitting  down,  without  having  a  clear  conscious- 
ness of  what  he  was  doing,  George  took  a  pen  and  signed 
rapidly.  He  would  have  liked  to  be  already  free  and  away 
from  that  room,  to  run  in  the  open  air,  to  go  far  away, 
to  be  alone.  But  when  he  saw  his  father  take  the  note, 
examine  the  signature,  dry  it  by  sprinkling  it  with  a  pinch 
of  sand,  then  replace  it  and  lock  the  drawer;  when  he  re- 
marked in  every  one  of  these  acts  the  ignoble  joy,  badly 
dissimulated,  of  a  man  who  had  succeeded  in  an  evil  pur- 
pose ;  when,  in  his  soul,  he  felt  the  certitude  that  he  had 
permitted  himself  to  be  duped  into  a  shameful  fraud; 
when  he  thought  of  the  interrogations  that  awaited  him  in 
the  other  house — then  the  useless  regret  for  his  act  upset 
him  so,  that  he  was  on  the  point  of  giving  play  to  his  ex- 
treme indignation,  and  to  finally  revolt  with  all  his  power 


126  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

against  the  scoundrel,  in  defence  of  himself,  his  family, 
and  of  the  violated  rights  of  his  mother  and  sister.  "  Ah  ! 
it  was  true,  then — all  that  his  mother  had  told  him  was  true  ! 
This  man  had  not  a  shadow  of  shame,  not  a  trace  of  self- 
respect.  He  recoiled  from  nothing  and  before  nobody 
when  it  was  a  question  of  getting  money."  And  he  felt 
once  more  the  presence  of  the  concubine,  of  the  rapacious, 
insatiable  woman  who  was  certainly  hidden  in  an  adjoining 
room,  eavesdropping,  spying,  waiting  for  her  share  of  the 
plunder. 

Without  succeeding  in  repressing  the  tremor  that  shook 
him,  he  said : 

"  You  promise  that  this  money  will  not  be  used — for  any 
other  purpose  ? ' ' 

"  Why,  yes;  of  course,"  replied  his  father,  allowing  his 
son  to  see  now  how  much  this  insistance  annoyed  him,  and 
who  had  manifestly  changed  countenance  since  it  was  no 
longer  necessary  for  him  to  beg  and  feign  in  order  to  obtain. 

"Take  care!  I  shall  know,"  added  George,  who  had 
become  very  pale,  and  in  a  choking  voice  betraying  an  effort 
to  restrain  the  outburst  of  indignation  which  increased  in 
proportion  as  the  man  appeared  more  truly  in  his  odious 
aspect,  in  proportion  as  the  consequences  of  the  precipitate 
step  that  he  had  taken  became  more  clearly  defined. 
"  Take  care  !  I  do  not  wish  to  become  your  accomplice 
against  my  mother." 

Affecting  to  be  hurt  by  this  suspicion,  suddenly  raising 
his  voice  as  if  to  intimidate  his  son,  who  was  undergoing 
torture  while  compelling  himself  to  look  him  in  the  face, 
the  father  roared : 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  insinuate  ?  When  will  that 
viper  of  a  mother  of  yours  cease  spitting  her  venom  ? 
When  will  she  finish  ?  Does  she  want  me  to  close  her 


THE   PATERNAL   ROOF.  127 

mouth  forever  ?  Very  well  !  I'll  do  it  one  of  these  days. 
Ah  !  what  a  woman  !  For  fifteen  years,  yes,  fifteen  years, 
she  has  not  given  me  one  minute's  peace.  She  has  poisoned 
my  life,  she  is  killing  me  by  slow  fire.  If  I  am  ruined,  it 
is  her  fault.  Do  you  understand  ?  It  is  her  fault !  " 

"  Be  silent !  "  cried  George,  beside  himself,  unrecogniz- 
able, pale  as  death,  trembling  in  all  his  limbs,  seized  by  a 
fury  like  that  which  he  had  already  felt  against  Diego.  "  Be 
silent !  Do  not  speak  her  name  !  You  are  not  worthy  to 
kiss  her  feet.  I  came  here  to  speak  to  you  of  her.  I 
allowed  myself  to  be  played  upon  by  your  comedy.  I  per- 
mitted myself  to  be  caught  in  a  trap.  What  you  wanted 
was  a  present  for  your  ribald  companion,  and  you  succeeded. 
Oh  !  what  shame  !  And  you  have  the  heart  to  insult  my 
mother!" 

His  voice  failed  him ;  he  choked ;  a  veil  covered  his  eyes ; 
his  knees  shook  beneath  him  as  if  all  his  strength  was 
about  to  abandon  him. 

"  Now,  good-by  !  I  am  going.  Act  as  you  like.  I  am 
your  son  no  longer.  I  never  want  to  see  you  or  know  any- 
thing of  you.  I  will  take  my  mother  away;  I  will  take  her 
away  with  me  to  some  distant  place.  Farewell  !  " 

He  went  out  tottering,  a  shadow  before  his  eyes.  As 
he  passed  through  the  rooms  to  reach  the  terrace,  he  heard 
the  frou-frou  of  skirts,  and  a  door  which  closed,  as  if 
behind  someone  retiring  in  haste,  in  order  not  to  be  sur- 
prised. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  open  air,  outside  the  railings, 
he  felt  a  mad  desire  to  weep,  to  cry,  to  run  across  the  fields, 
to  knock  his  head  against  a  rock,  to  seek  a  precipice  where 
all  would  end.  His  nerves  trembled  painfully  in  his  head, 
and  caused  him  cruel  twinges  as  if  they  were  being  broken 
one  after  the  other.  And  he  thought,  with  a  terror  that  the 


128  THE    TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

dying  day  rendered  more  atrocious :  "  Where  shall  I  go  ? 
Shall  I  go  back  there  this  evening  ?  "  The  house  seemed  to 
him  to  be  moved  back  an  infinite  distance ;  the  length  of 
the  road  appeared  impossible  to  traverse ;  all  that  was  not 
immediate  and  absolute  cessation  of  his  frightful  torture 
seemed  to  him  inadmissible. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  following  morning,  when  he  opened  his  eyes  after 
a  very  restless  night,  the  events  of  the  previous  evening 
seemed  but  a  confused  memory.  The  tragic  deepening  of 
the  twilight  on  the  silent  country ;  the  grave  sound  of  the 
Angelus,  which,  prolonged  in  his  ears  by  a  hallucination 
of  hearing,  had  seemed  endless ;  the  anguish  which  had 
come  over  him  on  approaching  the  house,  at  the  sight  of 
the  lighted  windows  crossed  at  intervals  by  shadows;  the 
feverish  excitement  which  had  seized  him  when,  pressed 
with  questions  by  his  mother  and  sister,  he  had  related  the 
interview,  exaggerating  the  violence  of  the  invectives  and 
the  atrocity  of  the  altercation ;  the  almost  delirious  desire 
to  keep  on  speaking,  to  add  to  the  recital  of  the  real  facts 
the  incoherence  of  his  imagination;  the  ejaculations  oi 
contempt  or  of  tenderness  with  which  his  mother  had  inter- 
rupted him,  as  he  went  on  describing  the  brute's  attitude 
and  his  own  energy  in  reproaching  him ;  then  the  sudden 
hoarseness,  the  rapid  exasperation  of  the  pain  which  ham- 
mered his  temples,  the  spasmodic  efforts  at  a  bitter  and 
non-coercible  vomiting,  the  severe  cold  which  had  chilled 
him  in  bed,  the  horrible  dreams  which  had  caused  him  to 
start  while  in  the  first  torpor  of  his  enfeebled  nerves — all 
this  came  back  confusedly  to  his  memory,  augmented  his 
painful  physical  stupor,  from  which,  however,  he  would 
not  have  been  willing  to  emerge  but  to  enter  into  a  state  of 
complete  extinction,  into  the  insensibility  of  a  corpse. 

The  necessity  of  death  was  still  suspended  over  him  with 
9 


130  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

the  same  imminence;  but  it  was  unendurable  for  him  to 
think  that,  in  order  to  put  his  design  into  execution,  he 
would  have  to  shake  off  his  inertia,  accomplish  a  series  of 
fatiguing  acts,  conquer  the  physical  repugnance  which  dis- 
couraged him  from  all  effort.  Where  could  he  kill  himself  ? 
How  ?  At  the  house  ?  That  same  day  ?  With  a  fire- 
arm ?  With  poison  ?  His  mind  had  not  yet  conceived  the 
precise  and  definite  idea.  Even  the  torpor  that  paralyzed 
him,  and  the  bitterness  of  his  mouth,  suggested  to  him  the 
idea  of  a  narcotic.  And,  vaguely,  without  stopping  to 
seek  a  practical  means  by  which  he  could  procure  an  effi- 
cacious dose,  he  imagined  its  effect.  Little  by  little  the 
images  multiplied,  became  particularized,  became  more  dis- 
tinct; and  their  association  formed  a  visible  scene.  What 
he  tried  to  imagine  was,  not  so  much  the  sensations  of  his 
slow  death-agony,  as  the  circumstances  which  would  lead 
to  his  mother,  sister,  and  brother  learning  of  the  catas- 
trophe. He  tried  to  imagine  the  manifestations  of  their 
sorrow,  their  attitudes,  their  words,  their  gestures.  Still 
following  the  same  idea,  his  curious  attention  extended  to 
all  the  survivors,  not  on4y  his  immediate  relatives  but  to 
the  entire  family,  to  his  friends,  to  Hippolyte,  the  far-dis- 
tant Hippolyte,  so  distant  that  she  had  almost  become  as  a 
stranger  to  him. 

"George!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  his  mother, who  was  knocking  at  the  door. 

"  Is  it  you,  mother  ?     Come  in." 

She  entered,  approached  the  bed  with  affectionate  eager- 
ness, leaned  over  him,  placed  a  hand  on  his  forehead,  and 
asked : 

"  How  do  you  feel  ?     Any  better  ?  " 

"  A  little.  I'm  still  dizzy — I  have  a  bitter  taste  in  my 
mouth.  I  should  like  a  drink." 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  13! 

"  Camilla  is  going  to  bring  you  up  a  cup  of  milk.  Shall 
I  open  the  windows  more  ? ' ' 

"  Just  as  you  like,  mother." 

His  voice  was  changed.  His  mother's  presence  aroused  in 
him  that  sentiment  of  pity  for  himself  which  had  given  birth 
to  the  imaginary  picture  of  funereal  regrets,  the  time  for 
which  he  believed  was  close  at  hand.  In  his  mind,  the 
actuality  of  his  mother  opening  the  windows  became  identi- 
fied with  the  imaginary  action  which  would  bring  about  the 
terrible  discovery ;  and  his  eyes  grew  moist  with  commisera- 
tion for  himself  and  for  the  poor  woman  whom  he  destined 
to  receive  such  a  cruel  blow ;  and  the  tragic  scene  appeared 
before  him  with  all  the  distinctness  of  a  thing  actually 
seen :  his  mother,  a  little  frightened,  turns  round  in  the 
light,  calls  him  again  by  name ;  trembling,  she  approaches 
the  bed,  touches  him,  shakes  him,  finds  his  body  inert, 
cold,  rigid ;  and  then  she  falls,  fainting,  prostrate  over  his 
corpse.  "  Perhaps  dead.  Such  a  shock  might  kill  her." 
And  his  anxiety  increased ;  and  the  moment  seemed  solemn 
to  him,  like  all  that  is  final ;  and  his  mother's  appear- 
ance, actions,  and  words  assumed  in  his  eyes  such  an 
unusual  signification  and  value  that  he  followed  them  with 
almost  anxious  attention.  Drawn  suddenly  from  his  spir- 
itual torpor,  he  had  just  recovered  an  extraordinarily  active 
consciousness  of  life.  There  reappeared  in  him  a  well- 
known  phenomenon,  the  singularity  of  which  had  often 
attracted  his  attention.  It  was  an  instantaneous  passage 
from  one  state  of  consciousness  to  another;  between  the 
new  state  and  the  anterior  state  there  was  the  same  differ- 
ence as  exists  between  waking  and  slumber,  and  that  recalled 
to  his  mind  the  sudden  change  produced  in  the  theatre 
when  the  footlights  are  unexpectedly  turned  up  and  pro- 
ject their  strongest  light. 


132  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

So,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral,  the  son  gazed  on  his 
mother  with  eyes  that  were  no  longer  the  same,  and  saw 
her  as  he  had  seen  her  then,  with  strange  lucidity.  He 
felt  that  this  woman's  life  was  brought  closer  to,  became 
connected  with  as  if  adherent  to,  his  own  life  ;  he  felt  the 
mysterious  relation  of  the  blood,  and  the  affliction  of  the 
fate  which  menaced  them  both.  And  when  his  mother 
came  close  to  him  again  and  sat  down  by  his  bedside,  he 
raised  himself  a  little  on  his  pillow,  took  one  of  her  hands, 
tried  to  dissimulate  his  agitation  by  a  smile.  Under  the 
pretext  of  looking  at  the  cameo  of  a  ring,  he  examined 
the  long  and  thin  hand,  to  which  each  particularity  im- 
parted an  extraordinary  expression  of  life  and  whose  contact 
caused  him  a  sensation  resembling  no  other.  His  soul 
still  enveloped  in  the  gloomy  images  recently  evoked,  he 
thought :  "  When  I  am  dead,  when  she  touches  me,  when 
she  feels  the  icy — "  And  he  shuddered  as  he  remembered 
his  own  aversion  to  touching  a  corpse. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  his  mother. 

"  Nothing — a  little  nervous,  that's  all." 

"  Oh  !  you  are  not  well,"  she  went  on,  shaking  her  head. 
"  Where  do  you  feel  ill  ?" 

"  Nowhere,  mother.     I  am  naturally  a  little  upset." 

But  the  unnatural  and  convulsive  look  in  her  son's  face 
did  not  escape  the  maternal  eye. 

"  How  sorry  I  am  that  I  sent  you  there  !  How  wrong 
it  was  of  me  to  send  you." 

"  No,  mother.  Why  ?  It  was  necessary,  sooner  or 
later." 

And  all  at  once,  without  the  slightest  confusion  hence- 
forth, he  relived  the  frightful  hour ;  he  saw  once  more  his 
father's  gestures,  heard  once  more  his  voice ;  he  heard  again 
his  own  voice,  that  voice  so  changed,  which,  contrary  to  all 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  133 

expectation,  had  uttered  such  grave  words.  It  seemed  to 
him  he  was  a  stranger  to  that  action  and  these  uttered 
words;  and  nevertheless,  at  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  he  felt 
a  sort  of  obscure  remorse;  he  felt  something  akin  to  an 
instinctive  consciousness  of  having  passed  beyond  bounds, 
of  having  committed  an  irreparable  transgression,  of  hav- 
ing trampled  under  foot  something  human  and  sacred.  Why 
had  he  departed  with  such  violence  from  the  great,  calm 
resignation  with  which  the  funereal  image  of  Demetrius  had 
inspired  him,  when  it  had  appeared  to  him  in  the  midst  of 
the  silent  country  ?  Why  had  he  not  persisted  in  consid- 
ering with  the  same  painful  and  clairvoyant  pity  the  base- 
ness and  ignominy  of  that  man  upon  whom,  as  upon  all 
other  men,  weighed  an  invincible  destiny  ?  And  he  him- 
self, he  who  carried  that  blood  in  his  veins,  did  he  not  also 
bear,  perhaps,  at  the  bottom  of  his  substance,  all  the  latent 
germs  of  those  abominable  vices  ?  If  he  continued  to  live, 
did  not  he,  too,  risk  falling  into  a  similar  abjection  ?  And 
then,  all  the  cholers,  all  the  hates,  all  the  violences,  all  the 
punishments,  appeared  to  him  to  be  unjust  and  useless. 
Life  was  a  heavy  fermentation  of  impure  matters.  He 
believed  he  felt  that  in  his  substance  he  had  a  thousand 
forces,  occult,  unrecognizable,  and  indestructible,  whose 
progressive  and  fatal  evolution  had  made  up  his  existence 
up  to  then,  and  would  make  up  his  future  existence,  if  it 
had  not  happened  precisely  that  his  will  had  to  obey  one 
of  these  forces  that  now  imposed  on  him  the  supreme  action. 
"  In  short,  why  regret  what  I  did  yesterday  ?  Could  I 
have  prevented  myself  from  doing  it  ?  " 

"  It  was  necessary,"  he  repeated,  with  a  new  signification, 
as  if  speaking  to  himself. 

And  he  sat  a  spectator,  lucid  and  attentive,  at  the  un- 
rolling of  the  little  of  the  life  that  remained  for  him  to  live. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

WHEN  his  mother  and  sister  had  left  him  alone,  he  stayed 
in  bed  a  few  moments  longer,  through  a  physical  repug- 
nance to  do  anything  whatever.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  to 
rise,  he  would  have  to  make  an  enormous  effort.  It  seemed 
to  him  too  fatiguing  to  leave  that  horizontal  position  in 
which,  in  one  hour  perhaps,  he  was  going  to  find  eternal 
repose.  And,  once  more,  he  thought  of  a  narcotic.  "  Close 
the  eyes  and  wait  for  sleep  !  "  The  virginal  light  of  that 
May  morning,  the  azure  reflected  in  the  window-panes,  the 
beam  of  sunlight  that  streamed  on  the  floor,  the  voices  and 
murmurs  that  arose  from  the  street,  all  those  living  signs 
that  seemed  to  rise  above  the  balcony  and  reach  as  far  as 
him  and  reconquer  him,  all  inspired  him  with  a  kind  of 
fright  mixed  with  rancor.  And  he  saw  again,  in  his  mind, 
the  image  of  his  mother  going  through  the  gesture  of  open- 
ing the  window.  He  saw  Camille  once  more  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed ;  he  reheard  the  words  of  both,  always  relating 
to  the  same  man.  What  he  most  clearly  remembered  was  a 
cruel  exclamation,  uttered  by  his  mother,  with  lips  over- 
flowing with  bitterness ;  and  with  it  he  associated  the  vision 
of  the  paternal  features,  those  features  on  which  he  believed 
he  had  discovered,  over  there,  on  the  terrace,  in  the  strong 
light  reflected  by  the  whiteness  of  the  wall,  the  symptoms 
of  a  mortal  malady.  In  front  of  Camille  and  himself,  his 
mother  had  said  passionately:  "If  that  were  only  true ! 
Heaven  grant  it  is  true  !  "  So  that,  then,  was  the  last  im- 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  135 

pression  left  in  his  heart,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure  from 
the  world,  by  the  creature  who  was  formerly  in  his  house 
the  source  of  every  tenderness  ! 

An  energetic  impulse  suddenly  came  over  him ;  he  threw 
himself  from  his  bed,  definitely  resolved  to  act.  "  It  will 
be  done  before  evening.  Where  shall  I  do  it?"  He 
thought  of  Demetrius's  closed  rooms.  He  had  not  yet  a 
definite  plan;  but  he  felt  morally  certain  that,  during  the 
hours  that  still  remained  to  run,  the  means  would  be  spon- 
taneously offered,  by  a  sudden  suggestion  which  he  would 
be  forced  to  obey. 

While  he  proceeded  to  make  his  toilet,  the  preoccupation 
haunted  him  to  prepare  his  body  for  the  tomb.  He,  too, 
had  that  species  of  funereal  vanity  that  has  been  remarked 
in  certain  criminals  condemned  to  death,  and  in  suicides. 
He  rendered  this  sentiment  more  intense  on  observing  it  in 
himself.  And  a  regret  came  over  him  at  having  to  die  in 
this  little,  obscure  town,  at  tKe  bottom  of  that  wild  province, 
far  from  his  friends,  who  for  a  long  time,  perhaps,  would  be 
ignorant  of  his  death.  If,  on  the  contrary,  the  act  were 
done  in  Rome,  in  the  great  city  where  he  was  well  known, 
his  friends  would  have  grieved  for  him ;  they  would,  doubt- 
less, have  given  to  the  tragic  mystery  the  adornment  of 
poetry.  And,  once  more,  he  tried  to  picture  what  would 
follow  his  death — his  attitude  on  the  bed,  in  the  chamber 
of  his  amours;  the  profound  emotion  of  the  youthful  souls, 
the  fraternal  souls,  at  the  sight  of  the  corpse  reposing  in 
austere  peace ;  the  dialogues  at  the  funereal  vigil,  by  the 
light  of  the  candles ;  the  coffin  covered  with  wreaths,  fol- 
lowed by  a  crowd  of  young  and  silent  men;  the  words  of 
farewell  pronounced  by  a  poet,  Stefano  Gondi :  "  He  died 
because  he  could  not  make  his  life  correspond  to  his  dreams. ' ' 
And  then  Hippolyte's  sorrow,  despair,  and  loss  of  reason. 


136  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

Hippolyte  !  Where  was  she  ?  What  were  her  thoughts  ? 
What  was  she  doing  ? 

"  No,"  he  thought,  "  my  presentiment  does  not  deceive 
me."  And  he  saw  again,  in  imagination,  his  mistress's 
gesture  as  she  lowered  her  black  veil  after  the  last  kiss  ;  and 
he  went  over  in  his  mind  the  little  final  points.  Yet  there 
was  one  thing  he  could  not  explain,  and  that  was  the 
almost  absolute  acquiescence  of  his  soul  at  the  necessary 
and  definite  renunciation  which  dispossessed  him  of  this 
woman,  only  lately  the  object  of  so  many  dreams  and  of 
so  much  adoration.  Why,  after  the  fever  and  anguish  of 
the  first  days,  had  hope  abandoned  him  little  by  little  ? 
Why  had  he  fallen  into  the  melancholy  certainty  that  all 
effort  would  be  useless  to  resuscitate  that  dead  and  incredi- 
bly distant  thing,  their  love  ?  Why  had  all  that  past  been 
so  entirely  separated  from  him  that  during  these  last  days, 
beneath  the  shock  of  recent  tortures,  he  had  barely  felt  a 
few  vibrations  reverberate  clearly  in  his  conscience  ? 

Hippolyte  !  Where  was  she  ?  What  were  her  feelings  ? 
What  was  she  doing  ?  On  what  sights  were  her  eyes 
resting  ?  From  what  words,  from  what  contacts,  did  she 
suffer  uneasiness  ?  What  could  have  happened,  that,  for 
two  weeks,  she  had  not  found  the  means  to  send  him  news 
less  vague  and  brief  than  four  or  five  telegrams  sent  from 
always  different  places  ? 

"  Perhaps  she  is  already  giving  way  to  desire  for  another 
man.  That  brother-in-law  of  whom  she  was  continually 
speaking — "  And  the  frightful  thought  aroused  by  the  old 
habit  of  suspicion  and  accusation  suddenly  mastered  him, 
overwhelmed  him  as  in  the  gloomiest  hours  of  his  past  life. 
A  tumult  of  bitter  recollections  arose  in  him.  Leaning  on 
the  same  balcony  where,  the  first  evening,  amidst  the  per- 
fume of  tne  bergamots,  in  tne  anguish  of  first  regrets,  he  had 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  137 

invoked  the  name  of  the  loved  one,  he  relived  in  one  sec- 
ond the  miseries  of  two  years.  And  it  seemed  to  him  that, 
in  the  splendor  of  this  May  morning,  it  was  the  recent 
happiness  of  the  unknown  rival  that  blossomed,  and  was 
diffused  as  far  as  where  he  stood. 


CHAPTER  X. 

As  if  to  initiate  himself  in  the  profound  mystery  into 
which  he  was  about  to  enter,  George  desired  to  see  once 
more  the  deserted  apartment  where  Demetrius  had  passed 
the  last  days  of  his  life. 

In  willing  all  his  fortune  to  his  nephew,  Demetrius  had 
also  willed  him  this  apartment.  George  had  kept  the 
rooms  intact,  with  pious  care,  as  one  guards  a  reliquary. 
The  rooms  were  situated  on  the  upper  floor,  and  looked 
south  over  the  garden. 

He  took  the  key  and  went  upstairs,  treading  cautiously, 
to  avoid  being  questioned.  But,  as  he  traversed  the  corridor, 
he  was  necessarily  obliged  to  pass  by  his  Aunt  Joconda's 
door.  Hoping  to  pass  unnoticed,  he  walked  softly,  on  tip- 
toe, holding  his  breath.  He  heard  the  old  woman  cough ; 
he  made  a  few  quicker  strides,  believing  that  the  noise  of 
the  cough  would  cover  the  sounds  of  his  footsteps. 

"  Who's  there  ?  "  demanded  a  hoarse  voice  from  within. 

"  It  is  I,  Aunt  Joconda." 

"  Ah  !     It's  you,  George  ?     Come  in,  come  in " 

She  appeared  upon  the  threshold,  with  her  ugly,  yellow- 
ish face,  which,  in  the  shadow,  was  almost  cadaveric ;  and 
she  glanced  at  her  nephew's  hands  before  looking  at  his 
face,  as  if  to  see  first  if  his  hands  had  brought  something. 

"  I  am  going  in  the  next  apartment,"  said  George, 
repelled  by  the  ignoble  bodily  odor,  which  filled  him  with 
disgust.  "  I  must  air  the  rooms  a  little." 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  139 

And  he  resumed  his  steps  in  the  corridor,  until  he  came 
to  the  other  door.  But,  as  he  turned  the  key,  he  heard 
behind  him  the  limping  of  the  old  woman. 

George  felt  his  heart  sink,  as  he  thought  that  perhaps  he 
would  not  find  a  way  to  disembarrass  himself  of  her,  that 
perhaps  he  'would  be  obliged  to  listen  to  her  stammering 
voice  amid  the  almost  religious  silence  of  these  rooms, 
with  their  beloved  yet  terrible  souvenirs.  Without  saying 
anything,  without  turning  round,  he  opened  the  door  and 
entered. 

The  first  room  was  dark,  the  air  somewhat  warm  and 
suffocating,  impregnated  with  that  singular  odor  peculiar 
to  old  libraries.  A  streak  of  faint  light  showed  where  the 
window  was.  Before  opening  the  shutters,  George  hesitated ; 
he  strained  his  ear  to  hear  the  gnawing  of  the  wood-ticks. 
Aunt  Joconda  began  to  cough,  invisible  in  the  darkness. 
Then,  feeling  on  the  window  to  find  the  iron  catch,  he 
felt  a  slight  thrill,  a  fugitive  fear.  He  opened  it,  and  turned 
round;  he  saw  the  vague  shapes  of  the  furniture  in  the 
greenish  penumbra  produced  by  the  shutters;  he  saw  the 
old  woman  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  one  side  distorted, 
swaying  her  flaccid  body  to  and  fro,  chewing  something. 
He  pushed  back  the  shutters,  which  creaked  on  their  hinges. 
A  flood  of  sunlight  inundated  the  interior.  The  discolored 
curtains  fluttered. 

At  first  he  was  undecided  :  the  presence  of  the  old  woman 
prevented  him  from  abandoning  himself  to  his  feelings. 
His  irritation  increased  to  such  a  degree  that  he  did  not 
speak  a  single  word  to  her,  fearing  that  his  voice  would  only 
be  cross  and  angry.  He  passed  into  the  adjoining  room  and 
opened  the  window.  The  light  spread  everywhere,  and  the 
curtains  fluttered.  He  passed  into  the  third  room  and 
opened  the  window.  The  light  spread  everywhere,  and  the 


140  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

curtains  fluttered.  He  went  no  farther.  The  next  room, 
in  the  angle,  was  the  bedroom.  He  wished  to  enter  it 
alone.  He  heard,  with  nausea,  the  limping  gait  of  the  un- 
fortunate old  woman  rejoining  him.  He  took  a  chair  and 
relapsed  into  an  obstinate  silence,  waiting. 

The  old  woman  crossed  the  threshold  slowly.  Seeing 
George  seated,  and  not  speaking,  she  was  perplexed.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  The  fresh  air  that  blew  in 
from  the  window  unquestionably  irritated  her  catarrh ;  and 
she  began  to  cough  again,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  At  every  spell  her  body  seemed  to  swell  and 
then  to  subside,  like  the  bag  of  a  bagpipe  beneath  an  inter- 
mittent breath.  She  held  her  hands  on  her  breast — fat 
hands,  like  tallow,  with  nails  bordered  with  black.  And 
in  her  mouth,  between  the  toothless  gums,  her  whitish 
tongue  quivered. 

As  soon  as  her  fit  of  coughing  was  over,  she  drew  from 
her  pocket  a  dirty  paper  bag,  and  took  out  a  pastille.  Still 
standing,  she  chewed,  staring  at  George  in  a  stupid  manner. 

Her  gaze  wandered  from  George  towards  the  closed  door 
of  the  fourth  room.  And  the  old  woman  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  then  went  and  sat  down  on  the  seat  nearest  to 
George.  Her  hands  on  her  abdomen,  and  the  eyelids  low- 
ered, she  recited  a  Requiem. 

"  She  is  praying  for  her  brother,"  thought  George;  "  for 
the  soul  of  the  damned"  It  seemed  inconceivable  to  him 
that  this  woman  should  be  the  sister  of  Demetrius  Aurispa  ! 
How  could  the  proud  and  generous  blood  which  had  soaked 
the  bed  in  the  adjoining  room,  the  blood  sprung  from  a 
brain  already  corroded  by  the  highest  cares  of  the  intelli- 
gence, have  come  from  the  same  source  as  that  which 
coursed,  so  impoverished,  in  the  veins  of  this  peevish  and 
disgusting  old  woman  ?  "  With  her,  it  is  greediness — the 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  14! 

greediness  which  regrets  the  liberality  of  the  donor.  How 
strange,  this  prayer  of  gratitude  from  an  old,  dilapidated 
stomach  towards  the  most  noble  of  suicides  !  How  odd 
life  is!" 

All  at  once,  Aunt  Joconda  began  to  cough  again. 

"You  had  better  go  from  here,  aunt;  it  isn't  good  for 
you,"  said  George,  who  no  longer  had  the  strength  to  master 
his  impatience.  "  The  air  here  is  bad  for  your  cough.  You 
had  better  go,  really.  Come,  I  will  see  you  back  to  your 
room." 

Aunt  Joconda  looked  at  him,  surprised  at  his  abrupt 
speech  and  unusual  tone.  She  rose,  and  went  limping 
through  the  rooms.  When  she  reached  the  corridor,  she 
again  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  as  if  muttering  an  exor- 
cism. When  she  had  gone,  George  closed  the  door,  and 
gave  the  key  a  double  turn.  At  last,  he  was  alone  and  free, 
with  an  invisible  companion. 

He  remained  motionless  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  under 
magnetic  influence.  And  he  felt  his  whole  being  invaded 
by  the  supernatural  fascination  which  that  man,  existing 
without  life,  exercised  over  him  from  the  bottom  of  the 
tomb. 

And  he  reappeared  to  his  mind,  a  mild,  meditative  man, 
with  a  face  full  of  a  virile  melancholy,  and  with  a  single 
white  curl  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  among  the  black 
hair,  giving  him  an  odd  appearance. 

"  For  me,"  thought  George,  "  he  exists.  Since  the  day 
of  his  corporeal  death  I  have  felt  his  presence  every  minute. 
Never  so  much  as  since  his  death  have  I  felt  our  consan- 
guinity. Never  so  much  as  since  his  death  have  I  had  the 
perception  of  the  intensity  of  his  being.  All  that  he  con- 
sumed in  contact  with  his  fellow-creatures ;  every  action, 
every  gesture,  every  word  that  he  has  sown  in  the  course  of 


142  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

time ;  every  diverse  manifestation  which  determined  the 
special  character  of  his  being  in  relation  with  other  beings  ; 
every  characteristic,  fixed  or  variable,  which  distinguished 
his  personality  from  other  personalities  and  made  of  him  a 
man  apart  in  the  human  multitude ;  in  short,  all  that  which 
differentiated  his  own  life  from  other  lives — all  now  seems 
to  me  to  be  collected,  concentrated,  circumscribed  in  the 
unique  and  ideal  tie  that  binds  him  to  me.  He  does  not 
exist  for  anyone  but  me  alone ;  he  is  freed  from  all  other 
contact,  he  is  in  communication  with  me  alone.  He 
exists,  purer  and  more  intense  than  ever." 

He  took  a  few  steps,  slowly.  The  heavy  silence  was  dis- 
turbed at  moments  by  little,  mysterious  noises,  scarcely 
perceptible.  The  fresh  air,  the  warmth  of  the  day,  con- 
tracted the  fibres  of  the  benumbed  furniture,  accustomed  to 
the  obscurity  of  the  closed  windows.  The  breath  of  heaven 
penetrated  the  pores  of  the  wood,  shook  the  particles  of  dust, 
swelled  the  folds  of  the  hangings.  In  a  ray  of  sunlight, 
myriads  of  atoms  whirled  about.  The  odor  of  the  books 
was  overcome  gradually  by  the  perfume  of  the  flowers. 

The  things  suggested  to  the  survivor  a  crowd  of  recollec- 
tions. From  these  things  arose  a  light  and  murmuring  chorus 
which  enveloped  him.  From  every  side  arose  the  emana- 
tions of  the  past.  One  would  have  said  that  the  things 
emitted  the  odors  of  a  spiritual  substance  which  had  im- 
pregnated them.  "  Do  I  exalt  myself  ?  "  he  asked  himself, 
at  the  aspect  of  the  images  that  succeeded  one  another  in 
his  mind  with  prodigious  rapidity,  clear  as  visions,  not 
obscured  by  a  funereal  shadow,  but  living  a  superior  life. 
And  he  remained  perplexed,  fascinated  by  the  mystery, 
seized  by  a  terrible  anguish  at  the  moment  of  venturing 
on  the  confines  of  that  unknown  world. 

The  curtains,  which  a  rhythmic  breath  seemed  to  swell, 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  143 

undulated  softly,  giving  glimpses  of  a  noble  and  calm 
landscape.  The  slight  noises  made  by  the  wainscoting, 
the  papers,  and  the  partitions  continued.  In  the  third 
room,  severe  and  simple,  the  recollections  were  musical,  and 
came  from  mute  instruments.  On  a  long,  violet-wood 
piano,  whose  varnished  surface  reflected  things  like  a  mirror, 
a  violin  reposed  in  its  box.  On  a  chair  a  page  of  music 
rose  and  fell  at  the  pleasure  of  the  breeze,  and  almost  in 
time  with  the  curtains. 

George  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  page  from  a  Mendelssohn 
motet :  DOMENICA  II  POST  PASCHA  :  Andante  quasi  alle- 
gretto, Surrexit pastor  bonus —  Farther  on,  on  a  table, 
there  was  a  heap  of  parts  for  the  violin  and  piano,  Leipzig 
editions :  Beethoven,  Bach,  Schubert,  Rode,  Tartini, 
Viotti.  George  opened  the  case,  examined  the  fragile 
instrument  that  slept  on  olive-colored  velvet,  with  its  four 
strings  still  intact.  A  curiosity  seized  him  to  awaken 
them.  He  touched  the  treble  string,  which  gave  a  plain- 
tive moan  that  vibrated  through  the  entire  body.  It  was 
a  violin  made  by  Andrea  Guarneri,  dated  1680. 

Demetrius  reappeared,  tall  and  slender,  a  little  bent, 
his  neck  long  and  pale,  his  hair  brushed  back,  and  with  the 
single  white  lock  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead.  He  held 
the  violin.  He  passed  one  hand  through  his  hair  on  the 
temple,  near  the  ear,  with  his  usual  gesture.  He  tuned  the 
instrument,  rosined  the  bow,  then  attacked  the  sonata. 
His  left  hand,  shrivelled  and  proud,  ran  up  and  down  the 
neck ;  the  tips  of  his  thin  fingers  pressed  the  strings,  and, 
beneath  the  skin,  the  play  of  his  muscles  was  so  visible  as 
to  be  painful ;  his  right  hand,  when  drawing  the  bow,  moved 
with  a  long,  faultless  motion.  Sometimes  he  held  the 
instrument  tighter  with  his  chin,  his  head  inclined,  his  eyes 
half-closed,  enjoying  keenly  his  inner  voluptuousness. 


144  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Sometimes  he  drew  himself  erect,  looked  fixedly  before 
him,  his  eyes  strangely  brilliant;  smiled  a  fugitive  smile; 
and  from  his  brow  beamed  an  extraordinary  purity. 

Thus  the  violinist  reappeared  to  the  survivor.  And 
George  lived  again  the  hours  of  life  already  lived;  he 
lived  them  again,  not  in  pictures  only,  but  in  actual  and 
profound  sensations.  He  lived  again  the  long  hours  of 
close  intimacy  and  forgetfulness,  the  time  when  Deme- 
trius and  himself,  alone,  in  the  warm  room  to  which  no 
noise  could  penetrate,  executed  the  music  of  their  favorite 
masters.  How  they  used  to  forget  their  very  existence  !  In 
what  strange  raptures  this  music,  executed  by  their  own 
hands,  soon  threw  them  !  Often  the  fascination  of  a 
single  melody  held  them  prisoners  an  entire  afternoon, 
without  their  being  able  to  leave  the  magic  circle  in  which 
they  were  enclosed.  How  often  they  had  rehearsed  that 
Song  without  Words  of  Mendelssohn,  which  had  revealed  to 
them  both,  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  a  sort  of  incon- 
solable hopelessness  !  How  often  they  had  rehearsed  a 
Beethoven  sonata  which  seemed  to  grasp  their  souls,  to  carry 
them  away  with  a  vertiginous  rapidity  across  the  infinity  of 
space,  and  hover  with  them,  during  the  flight,  over  every 
abyss  ! 

The  survivor  went  back  in  his  recollections  as  far  as  the 
autumn  of  188-,  to  that  unforgetful  autumn  of  melancholy 
and  poetry,  when  Demetrius  had  scarcely  emerged  from 
convalescence.  That  was  to  be  the  last  autumn  !  After 
a  long  period  of  enforced  silence,  Demetrius  took  up  his 
violin  again  with  strange  disquietude,  as  if  he  feared  hav- 
ing lost  all  his  aptitude  and  all  his  mastery,  all  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  instrument.  Oh,  what  trembling  of  the  enfee- 
bled fingers  on  the  strings  and  the  incertitude  of  the  bowing 
when  he  essayed  the  first  tones  !  And  those  two  tears  that 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  145 

formed  slowly  in  the  cavity  of  his  eyes,  rolled  down  his 
cheeks,  and  were  arrested  in  the  threads  of  his  beard,  rather 
long  and  still  untrimmed. 

The  survivor  again  saw  the  violinist  about  to  improvise, 
while  he  himself  accompanied  him  on  the  piano  with  an 
almost  insupportable  anguish,  attentive  in  following  him, 
in  anticipating  him,  always  fearing  to  break  the  measure, 
strike  a  false  note,  make  a  discord,  or  miss  a  note. 

In  his  improvisations,  Demetrius  Aurispa  was  almost 
always  inspired  with  poetry.  George  remembered  the  mar- 
vellous improvisation  that,  on  a  certain  October  day,  the 
violinist  had  composed  on  a  lyric  poem  by  Alfred  Tenny- 
son, in  The  Princess.  George  himself  had  translated  the 
verse  so  that  Demetrius  could  understand  it,  and  he  had 
proposed  it  to  him  as  a  theme.  Where  was  that  page  ? 

The  curiosity  of  a  sad  sensation  prompted  George  to 
search  for  it  in  an  album  placed  among  the  pieces  of  music. 
He  was  sure  he  could  find  it;  he  remembered  it  very 
clearly.  And,  in  fact,  he  found  it. 

It  was  a  single  sheet,  written  in  violet  ink.  The  charac- 
ters had  paled  and  the  sheet  had  become  rumpled,  yellow- 
ish, without  consistency,  soft  as  a  spider's  web.  It  bore 
the  sadness  of  pages  traced  a  long  time  ago  by  a  dear  hand, 
gone  henceforth  forever. 

George,  who  scarcely  recognized  the  characters,  said  to 
himself:  "It  is  I  who  wrote  this  page!  This  writing  is 
mine  !  "  It  was  a  rather  timid  hand,  unequal,  almost  fem- 
inine, recalling  a  schoolboy's  writing,  preserving  the  am- 
biguity of  the  recent  adolescence,  the  hesitating  delicacy 
of  a  soul  that  dares  not  yet  know  all.  "  What  a  change  in 
that,  too  !  "  And  he  read  again  the  poet's  verse  : 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
IO 


146  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail. 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld. 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge  ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square  ; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Demetrius  improvised  standing,  beside  the  piano,  a  trifle 
paler,  a  trifle  more  bent ;  but  from  time  to  time  he  drew 
himself  erect  beneath  the  breath  of  inspiration,  as  a  bent 
reed  straightens  beneath  the  breath  of  the  wind.  He  kept 
his  eyes  fixed  in  the  direction  of  the  window,  where,  as  if 
in  a  frame,  appeared  an  autumn  landscape,  reddish  and 
misty.  According  to  the  vicissitudes  of  the  heavens  without, 
a  changeable  light  flooded  at  intervals  his  person,  flashed 
in  the  humidity  of  his  eyes,  gilded  his  extraordinarily 
pure  brow.  And  the  violin  said  :  "  Sad  as  the  last  which 
reddens  over  one  that  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the 
verge;  so  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more."  And 
the  violin  repeated,  with  sobs  :  "  O  Death  in  Life,  the  days 
that  are  no  more." 


THE   PATERNAL    ROOF.  147 

At  the  reminiscence,  at  the  vision  conjured  up,  a  supreme 
anguish  assailed  the  survivor.  When  the  images  had  passed, 
the  silence  seemed  to  him  still  heavier.  The  delicate 
instrument  through  which  Demetrius' s  soul  had  sung  its  lof- 
tiest songs  had  again  sunk  to  sleep,  with  its  four  strings 
still  intact,  in  the  velvet-lined  case. 

George  lowered  the  lid,  as  on  a  corpse.  Around  him  the 
silence  was  lugubrious.  But  he  still  retained,  at  the  bot- 
tom of  his  heart,  like  a  refrain  indefinitely  prolonged,  this 
sigh :  "  O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

He  remained  a  few  moments  before  the  door  which  shut 
off  the  tragic  chamber.  He  felt  that  henceforth  he  was 
no  longer  master  of  himself.  His  nerves  dominated  him, 
imposed  on  him  the  disorder  and  excess  of  their  sensations. 
He  felt  about  his  head  a  band  that  contracted  and  enlarged 
according  to  the  palpitations  of  his  arteries,  as  if  it  were 
an  elastic  and  cold  substance.  The  same  cold  chill  ran 
down  his  spinal  column. 

With  sudden  energy,  in  a  sort  of  rage,  he  turned  the  knob 
and  entered.  Without  looking  about  him,  walking  in  the 
ray  of  light  which,  projected  through  the  open  door,  was 
shed  across  the  floor,  he  went  straight  towards  one  of  the 
balconies,  opened  the  two  shutters.  He  also  opened  the 
shutters  of  the  other  balcony.  After  this  rapid  action, 
accomplished  under  the  impulse  of  a  sort  of  horror,  he 
turned,  agitated,  gasping.  He  felt  his  flesh  creep. 

What  he  saw  before  anything  else  was  the  bed  stationed 
in  front  of  him,  with  its  green  counterpane,  all  of  walnut, 
but  simple  in  form,  without  carving,  without  ornaments, 
without  curtains.  For  several  moments  he  saw  nothing  but 
the  bed,  like  on  that  terrible  day  when,  crossing  the  thresh- 
old of  the  room,  he  had  stopped  petrified  at  the  sight  of 
the  corpse. 


148  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

Evoked  by  the  survivor's  imagination,  the  corpse,  with 
its  head  enveloped  in  a  black  veil  and  its  arms  stretched 
alongside  the  body,  retook  its  place  on  the  mortuary  couch. 
The  strong  light  which  entered  from  the  wide-open  balco- 
nies did  not  succeed  in  dissipating  the  phantom.  It  was  a 
vision,  not  continuous  but  intermittent,  seen  now  and 
then,  as  if  by  a  rapid  closure  of  the  eyelids,  although  the 
witness's  eyelids  remained  immovable. 

In  the  silence  of  the  room,  and  in  the  silence  of  his  soul, 
George  heard,  very  distinctly,  the  scratching  of  the  wood- 
tick.  And  this  trifling  fact  sufficed  to  dissipate  momentarily 
in  him  the  extreme  violence  of  the  nervous  tension,  as  the 
prick  of  a  needle  suffices  to  empty  a  swollen  blister. 

Every  particular  of  the  terrible  day  came  back  to  his 
memory :  the  unexpected  news  brought  to  Torricelle  di 
Sarsa,  at  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  by  a  breath- 
less messenger  who  stammered  and  wept;  the  exhausting 
journey  on  horseback,  in  the  heat  of  the  dog-days,  across 
the  scorched  hills,  and,  during  the  journey,  the  sudden 
fainting  spells  which  made  him  reel  in  his  saddle  ;  then  the 
house  filled  with  sobs,  filled  with  noises  of  doors  banged  by 
the  gale,  filled  with  the  buzzing  he  had  in  the  arteries ;  and, 
finally,  the  impetuous  entry  into  the  room,  the  sight  of  the 
corpse,  the  curtains  swelling  and  swishing,  the  tinkling  of 
the  holy-water  basin  suspended  on  the  wall. 

The  deed  had  been  done  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  of 
August,  without  any  suspicious  preparations.  The  suicide 
had  left  no  letter,  not  even  for  his  nephew.  The  will  by 
which  he  constituted  George  his  sole  legatee  was  already 
of  old  date.  Demetrius  had  taken  evident  precautions  to 
conceal  the  causes  of  his  resolution,  and  even  to  avoid  every 
pretext  for  hypotheses ;  he  had  taken  care  to  destroy  even 
the  least  traces  of  the  acts  which  had  preceded  the  supreme 


THE   PATERNAL   ROOF.  149 

act.  In  the  apartment,  everything  was  found  in  order,  in 
an  order  almost  excessive;  not  a  paper  remained  on  the 
desk,  not  a  book  was  missing  from  the  shelves  of  the  book- 
case. On  the  little  table,  near  the  bed,  was  the  pistol- 
case,  open ;  nothing  more. 

For  the  thousandth  time,  a  question  arose  in  the  mind  of 
the  survivor:  "Why  did  he  kill  himself?  Had  he  a 
secret  which  gnawed  at  his  heart  ?  Or  else,  was  it  the  cruel 
sagacity  of  his  intelligence  which  rendered  life  insupport- 
able ?  He  bore  his  destiny  within  himself,  as  I  bear  mine 
in  myself." 

He  looked  at  the  little  silver  emblem  still  suspended  on 
the  wall  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  a  symbol  of  religion,  a 
maternal  pious  souvenir.  It  was  a  fine  piece  of  workman- 
ship by  an  old  master  goldsmith  of  Guardiagrele,  Andrea 
Gallucci — a  sort  of  hereditary  jewel.  "  He  loved  religious 
emblems,  sacred  music,  the  odor  of  incense,  crucifixes,  the 
hymns  of  the  Latin  Church.  He  was  a  mystic,  an  ascetic, 
the  most  passionate  contemplator  of  the  inner  life ;  but  he 
did  not  believe  in  God." 

He  looked  at  the  pistol -case  ;  and  a  thought,  latent  in 
the  deepest  recesses  of  his  brain,  was  revealed  to  him  as  by 
a  lightning  flash.  "  I,  too,  will  kill  myself  with  one  of 
these  pistols — with  the  same,  on  the  same  bed.1''  After  a 
short  appeasement,  his  exaltation  took  hold  of  him  again ; 
again  he  felt  his  flesh  creep.  Once  more  he  felt  the  actual 
and  profound  sensation  of  the  shudder  already  experienced 
on  the  tragic  day,  when  he  had  wished  to  raise,  with  his 
own  hands,  the  black  veil  spread  over  the  dead  man's  face, 
and  when,  through  the  linen  wrappings,  he  believed  he 
could  see  the  ravages  of  the  wound,  the  horrible  ravage  made 
by  the  explosion  of  the  firearm,  by  the  impact  of  the  ball 
against  the  bone  of  the  skull,  against  that  brow  so  deli- 


15°  THE   TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

cate  and  so  pure.  In  reality,  he  had  seen  only  a  portion  of 
the  nose,  the  mouth,  and  the  chin.  The  rest  was  hidden 
by  the  bandages  several  times  folded,  perhaps  because  the 
eyes  had  started  from  their  sockets.  But  the  mouth,  intact, 
permitted  a  view  of  the  beard,  silky  and  thin — the  mouth, 
pale  and  withered,  which,  living,  opened  so  softly  for  the 
unexpected  smile — the  mouth  had  received  from  the  seal  of 
death  an  expression  of  superhuman  calmness,  rendered 
more  extraordinary  by  the  bloody  havoc  hidden  by  the 
bandages. 

This  image,  fixed  in  an  ineffaceable  imprint,  was  graven 
in  the  soul  of  the  inheritor,  in  the  centre  of  his  soul ;  and 
after  five  years  it  still  preserved  the  same  evidence,  pre- 
served by  a  fatal  power. 

In  thinking  that  he  also  would  stretch  himself  on  the 
same  bed,  and  that  he  would  kill  himself  with  the  same 
weapon,  George  did  not  feel  that  tumultuous  and  vibrant 
emotion  which  sudden  resolutions  impart;  it  was  rather  an 
indefinable  feeling,  as  if  it  concerned  a  project  formed 
a  long  time  ago,  and  approved  in  a  rather  indefinite  fash- 
ion, and  that  the  time  had  come  to  decide  about  it  and  to 
accomplish  it.  He  opened  the  case,  examined  the  pistols. 

They  were  fine  weapons,  rifled  duelling  pistols,  of  old 
English  make,  with  a  stock  perfectly  fitted  to  the  hand. 
They  reposed  on  a  light-green  velvet,  a  little  frayed  at  the 
edges  of  the  compartments  which  contained  everything 
necessary  for  loading  them.  As  the  barrels  were  of  large 
calibre,  the  balls  were  large ;  those  which,  when  they  touch 
their  object,  always  produce  a  decisive  effect. 

George  took  one  and  weighed  it  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
"  In  less  than  five  minutes  I  could  be  dead.  Demetrius 
has  left  on  this  bed  the  hollow  where  I  shall  lie."  And  by 
an  imaginary  transposition  it  was  himself  whom  he  saw 


THE    PATERNAL    ROOF.  151 

stretched  on  the  couch.  But  that  wood-tick  !  That  wood- 
tick  !  He  had  a  perception  of  being  gnawed  by  the  insects, 
as  distinctly  and  as  frightfully  as  if  the  animals  were  in  his 
brain.  This  implacable  gnawing  came  from  the  bed,  and  he 
perceived  it.  Then  he  understood  the  sadness  of  the  man 
who,  before  dying,  hears  beneath  him  the  gnawing  of  the 
wood-tick.  When  he  pictured  himself  in  the  act  of  press- 
ing the  trigger,  he  felt  an  agonized  and  repulsive  contraction 
of  all  his  nerves.  When  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
nothing  forced  him  to  kill  himself,  and  that  he  could  wait, 
he  felt  at  the  deepest  recesses  of  his  substance  the  sponta- 
neous expansion  of  intense  relief.  A  thousand  invisible 
ties  still  bound  him  to  life.  "  Hippolyte  !  " 

He  went  towards  the  balcony,  towards  the  light,  with 
a  sort  of  impetuosity.  A  background  of  an  immense  land- 
scape, bluish  and  mysterious,  melted  in  the  languor  of  the 
day.  The  sun  was  slowly  setting  on  the  mountain,  which  it 
flooded  with  gold,  like  the  couch  of  a  mistress  who  awaited. 
The  Majella,  enormous  and  white,  all  bathed  in  this  liquid 
gold,  reared  its  huge  mass  in  the  sky. 


III. 
THE    HERMITAGE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

IN  her  letter  of  May  icth,  Hippolyte  had  said  :  "I  can 
at  last  dispose  of  a  free  hour  to  write  you  a  long  letter. 
My  brother-in-law  has  now  been  dragging  his  pain  from 
hotel  to  hotel  around  the  lake  for  the  last  ten  days ;  and 
we  both  follow  him  like  troubled  souls.  You  could  never 
imagine  the  melancholy  of  this  pilgrimage.  I  myself  am 
utterly  exhausted ;  I  await  the  first  favorable  opportunity 
to  leave  them.  Have  you  already  found  the  Hermitage  ?  " 
She  had  said  :  "  Your  letters  increase  my  torment  inex- 
pressibly. I  know  well  your  malady;  and  I  divine  that 
words  fail  you  to  express  your  suffering.  I  would  give  half 
of  my  blood  to  succeed  in  convincing  you,  once  for  all, 
that  I  am  yours,  absolutely  yours,  forever,  until  death.  I 
think  of  you,  of  you  only,  uninterruptedly,  every  instant  of 
my  life.  Away  from  you,  I  cannot  enjoy  one  moment's 
calm  and  happiness.  Everything  disgusts  and  irritates  me. 
Oh,  when  will  it  be  given  me  to  be  with  you  entire  days, 
to  live  your  life  !  You  will  see ;  I  shall  no  longer  be  the 
same  woman.  I  shall  be  amiable,  tender,  gentle.  I  shall 
take  care  to  be  always  the  same,  always  discreet.  I  shall 
tell  you  all  my  thoughts,  and  you  will  tell  me  all  yours.  I 


154  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

shall  be  your  mistress,  your  friend,  your  sister;  and,  if  you 
believe  me  worthy,  I  will  be  also  your  counsellor.  I  have 
a  lucid  intuition  of  things,  and  a  hundred  times  I  have  expe- 
rienced this  lucidity,  which  has  never  led  me  into  error. 
My  sole  care  will  be  to  please  you  always,  never  to  be  a 
burden  in  your  life.  In  me  you  should  find  only  sweetness 
and  repose.  ...  I  have  many  faults,  my  friend ;  but 
you  will  aid  me  to  conquer  them.  You  will  make  me  per- 
fect, for  yourself.  I  await  from  you  the  first  encouragement. 
Later,  when  I  am  sure  of  myself,  I  will  say  to  you :  Now  I 
am  worthy;  now  I  have  the  consciousness  of  being  what 
you  desire.  And  you,  too,  will  be  proud  to  think  that  I 
owe  you  all,  that  lam  your  creature  in  everything;  and 
then  it  will  seem  to  you  that  I  am  more  intimately  yours, 
and  you  will  love  me  always  more,  always  more.  It  will 
be  a  life  of  love  such  as  has  never  before  been  seen." 

In  a  postscript :  "  I  send  you  a  rhododendron  gathered 
in  the  park  of  Isola  Madre.  .  .  .  Yesterday,  in  the 
pocket  of  that  gray  dress  which  you  know,  I  found  the  note 
from  Albano  which  I  had  asked  you  for  as  a  souvenir.  It 
is  dated  April  gth.  It  has  been  marked  with  several  baskets 
of  wood.  Do  you  recall  our  great  fires  of  love  ?  Courage, 
courage  !  The  renewal  of  happiness  is  approaching.  In 
one  week,  in  ten  days  at  the  most,  I  shall  be  wherever  it 
pleases  you.  With  you,  no  matter  where." 


CHAPTER  II. 

AND  George,  who  at  heart  hardly  believed  in  success, 
but  who  was  suddenly  seized  by  an  insensate  ardor,  at- 
tempted the  supreme  test. 

He  left  Gfliardiagrele  for  the  littoral,  in  quest  of  the 
Hermitage.  The  country,  the  sea,  the  motion,  the  physical 
activity,  the  variety  of  the  incidents  strewn  along  the  course 
of  this  exploration,  the  singularity  of  his  own  condition — 
all  these  new  things  stirred  him,  restored  his  equilibrium, 
gave  him  an  illusory  confidence.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he 
had  just  escaped  by  a  miracle  from  the  assault  of  a  mortal 
malady  in  which  he  had  been  face  to  face  with  death. 
For  the  first  few  days,  life  had  for  him  that  sweetness  and 
depth  which  it  only  has  for  convalescents.  Hippolyte's 
romantic  dream  floated  about  his  heart. 

"  If  she  should  succeed  in  curing  me  !  To  cure  me  would 
require  a  healthy  and  strong  love."  He  avoided  looking 
into  the  very  bottom  of  his  conscience ;  he  fought  shy  of 
the  interior  sarcasm  that  those  two  adjectives  provoked. 
"  On  earth,  there  is  but  one  durable  intoxication  :  security 
in  the  possession  of  another  creature,  absolute  and  unshak- 
able security.  This  intoxication  I  am  seeking.  I  would 
like  to  be  able  to  say :  My  loved  one,  present  or  absent, 
lives  entirely  in  me;  my  will  is  her  only  law;  if  I  ceased 
to  love  her  she  would  die ;  in  dying,  she  will  regret  only 
my  love."  Instead  of  resigning  himself  to  enjoy  love  in 
the  form  of  suffering,  he  persisted  in  following  it  in  the 


156  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

form  of  pleasure.  He  felt  that  his  mind  was  corroded  irrep- 
arably. Once  more  he  felt  he  had  degraded  his  manhood. 

He  discovered  the  Hermitage  at  San  Vito,  in  the  land  of 
the  furze,  on  the  borders  of  the  Adriatic.  It  was  the  ideal 
Hermitage — a  house  built  on  a  plateau,  half-way  up  on  the 
cliffs,  in  a  grove  of  orange  and  olive  trees,  facing  a  little 
bay  closed  in  by  two  promontories. 

Very  primitive,  the  architecture  of  the  house.  An  outer 
stairway  led  up  to  a  loggia  on  which  opened  the  four  doors 
of  four  rooms.  Each  room  had  its  door,  and  vis-a-vis,  in 
the  wall  opposite,  a  window  looking  out  on  the  olive-grove. 
To  the  upper  loggia  there  was  a  corresponding  lower  log- 
gia ;  but  the  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  with  the  exception 
of  one,  were  uninhabitable. 

On  one  side,  the  house  was  contiguous  to  an  old  ruin 
inhabited  by  the  peasants  who  owned  it.  Two  enormous 
oaks,  that  the  persevering  breath  of  the  northerly  winds  had 
bent  towards  the  hill,  shaded  the  court  and  protected  the 
stone  tables,  useful  for  dining  in  summer  time.  This 
court  was  surrounded  by  a  stone  parapet,  and,  rising  above 
the  parapet,  acacia-trees,  loaded  with  odorous  bloom,  delin- 
eated against  the  background  of  the  sea  the  delicate  ele- 
gance of  their  foliage. 

This  house  was  used  only  for  lodging  strangers  who 
rented  it  for  the  bathing  season,  according  to  the  industry 
practised  by  all  the  villagers  of  the  coast  in  the  region  of 
San  Vito.  It  was  about  two  miles  distant  from  the  borough, 
on  the  border  of  a  territory  called  Portelles,  in  quiet  and 
mild  solitude.  Each  of  the  two  promontories  was  pierced 
by  a  tunnel,  the  two  openings  of  which  were  visible  from 
the  house.  The  railroad  ran  from  one  to  the  other  in  a 
straight  line,  along  the  shore,  a  distance  of  from  five  to  six 
hundred  yards.  At  the  extreme  point  of  the  right-hand 


THE    HERMITAGE.  *57 

promontory,  on  a  bank  of  rocks  the  Trabocco  stretched,  a 
strange  fishing  machine,  constructed  entirely  of  beams  and 
planks,  like  a  colossal  spider-web. 

The  tenant,  out  of  season,  was  greeted  like  an  unhoped 
for  and  extraordinary  piece  of  good  fortune. 

The  head  of  the  family,  an  old  man,  said : 

"  The  house  is  yours." 

He  refused  to  name  a  price,  and  said :  "If  you  are  satis- 
fied with  it,  you  will  give  me  what  you  wish  and  when  you 
please." 

While  uttering  these  cordial  words,  he  examined  the 
stranger  with  an  eye  so  scrutinizing  that  the  latter  was  em- 
barrassed and  surprised  by  this  too  piercing  look.  The 
old  man  was  blind  with  one  eye,  bald  on  the  top  of  his 
head,  with  two  little  tufts  of  white  hair  on  the  temples ;  his 
chin  was  shaven,  and  he  carried  his  entire  body  before  him, 
sustained  by  two  bow  legs.  His  limbs  were  deformed  by 
hard  work :  by  the  labor  at  the  plough,  which  advances  the 
right  shoulder  and  twists  the  body ;  by  the  labor  of  mowing, 
which  forces  the  knees  apart ;  by  the  labor  of  thinning  the 
vines,  which  bends  the  body  in  two;  by  all  the  slow  and 
patient  labors  of  agriculture. 

"  You'll  give  what  you  wish." 

He  had  already  scented  in  this  affable  young  man,  with 
his  somewhat  distracted  and  almost  wandering  air,  the 
generous  milord,  inexperienced,  careless  of  money.  He 
knew  that  the  generosity  of  his  guest  would  be  much  more 
profitable  for  him  than  if  he  made  his  own  terms. 

George  asked : 

"  Is  the  place  quiet,  without  visitors,  without  noise  ?  " 

The  old  man  pointed  to  the  sea  and  smiled : 

"  Look;  you  will  hear  nothing  but  that." 

He  added : 


158  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  Sometimes  the  sound  of  the  loom,  too.  But  now  Candia 
hardly  weaves  at  all." 

And  he  smiled,  pointing  to  the  threshold  where  stood  his 
Daughter-in-law,  blushing. 

She  was  enceinte,  already  very  large  at  the  waist,  blond,  a 
clear  carnation,  her  face  sown  with  freckles.  She  had  big 
gray  eyes,  the  iris  veined  like  agates.  She  wore  in  her  ears 
two  heavy  gold  rings,  and  on  her  bosom  the  presentoso,  a 
large  star  of  filigree  work,  with  two  hearts  in  the  centre. 
On  the  threshold  beside  her  was  a  little  girl  of  ten,  a 
blonde  also,  with  a  sweet  expression. 

"  One  could  drink  down  that  little  madcap  in  a  glass," 
said  the  old  man.  "  That's  all !  There  are  only  us  and 
Albadora." 

He  turned  toward  the  olive-grove  and  began  to  call : 

''Albadora!     Albadb ! " 

Then,  addressing  his  granddaughter : 

"  Helen,  go  and  call  her,  "  he  said. 

Helen  disappeared. 

"  Twenty-two  children  !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Albadora 
gave  me  twenty-two  children — six  boys  and  sixteen  girls.  I 
have  lost  three  boys  and  seven  girls.  The  other  nine  girls 
are  married.  One  of  my  boys  went  to  America ;  another 
has  made  his  home  in  Tocco,  and  works  in  the  petroleum 
mines ;  the  youngest,  the  one  whom  Candia  married,  is  em- 
ployed on  the  railway,  and  only  visits  us  every  two  weeks. 
We  are  left  all  alone.  Ah  !  signer,  it  is  well  said  that  one 
father  supports  a  hundred  children,  and  that  a  hundred  chil- 
dren do  not  support  one  father." 

The  septuagenarian  Sibyl  appeared,  bearing  in  her  apron 
a  heap  of  large  earth-snails,  a  slimy  and  flaccid  heap,  from 
which  protruded  long  tentacles.  She  was  a  woman  of  tall 
stature,  but  bent,  emaciated,  broken  by  fatigue  and  by 


THE    HERMITAGE.  I$9 

frequent  pregnancies,  weakened  by  childbirths,  with  a 
small  head,  wrinkled  like  a  withered  apple,  on  a  neck  full 
of  hollows  and  tendons.  In  her  apron  the  snails  stuck 
together,  twisted  about  one  another,  glued  to  one  another, 
greenish,  yellowish,  whitish,  frothy,  with  colorations  of 
pale  iridescent  reflections.  One  of  them  had  crawled  up  on 
her  hand. 

The  old  man  exclaimed  : 

"This  gentleman  wishes  to  rent  the  house  from  to-day 
on." 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  she  cried. 

And,  with  a  rather  silly  yet  kind  air,  she  drew  closer  to 
George,  leering  at  him  with  eyes  sunk  deep  in  their  orbits, 
almost  sightless. 

She  added : 

"  It's  Jesus  come  back  to  earth.  God  bless  you  !  May 
you  live  as  long  as  there's  bread  and  wine.  May  you 
become  as  great  as  the  sun  ! ' ' 

And,  with  a  joyous  step,  she  passed  on  into  the  house, 
through  the  same  door  which  all  her  twenty-two  children 
had  passed  through  on  their  way  to  baptism. 

The  old  man  said  to  George  : 

"  My  name  is  Colas  di  Cinzio;  but,  as  my  father's  sur- 
name was  Sciampagne,  everybody  calls  me  Colas  di  Sciam- 
pagne.  Come  and  see  the  garden." 

George  followed  the  peasant. 

"  The  crops  are  very  promising  this  year." 

The  old  man,  walking  in  front,  praised  the  plantations, 
and,  as  is  common  with  persons  who  have  grown  old  in  the 
midst  of  nature,  he  made  prognostications.  The  garden 
was  luxuriant,  and  seemed  to  enclose  in  its  circle  all  the 
gifts  of  abundance.  The  orange-trees  shed  such  waves  of 
perfume  that,  at  moments,  the  atmosphere  acquired  a  sweet 


l6o  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH, 

and  powerful  savor,  like  that  of  a  generous  wine.  The  other 
fruit-trees  were  no  longer  in  flower,  but  their  innumerable 
fruits  hung  from  nourishing  branches,  rocked  by  the  breath 
of  heaven. 

George  thought :  "  This,  perhaps,  is  what  the  superior 
life  would  be:  a  limitless  liberty;  a  noble  and  fruitful 
solitude  which  would  envelop  me  with  its  warmest  emana- 
tions ;  to  journey  on  amidst  the  vegetal  creation  as  one 
would  amongst  a  multitude  of  intelligences ;  to  wrest  from 
it  the  occult  thought  and  to  divine  the  mute  sentiment 
which  reigns  beneath  the  externals ;  to  successively  render 
my  being  comfortable  with  each  of  these  beings,  and  to 
successively  substitute  for  my  weakened  and  oblique  soul 
each  of  these  simple  and  strong  souls ;  to  contemplate  nature 
with  such  a  continuity  of  attention  that  I  should  succeed  in 
reproducing,  in  my  own  person,  the  harmonious  palpitation 
of  all  creatures  ;  finally,  by  a  laborious  and  ideal  metamor^ 
phosis,  identify  myself  with  the  robust  tree  whose  roots 
absorb  the  invisible  subterranean  ferments,  and  whose 
summit  imitates,  by  its  agitation,  the  voice  of  the  sea. 
Would  not  that  be  truly  a  superior  life  ?  "  At  the  sight  of 
the  spring-time  exuberance  that  transfigured  the  surrounding 
places,  he  permitted  himself  to  be  dominated  by  a  sort  of 
drunken  panic.  But  the  fatal  habit  of  contradiction  cut 
short  this  transport,  brought  him  back  to  his  old  ideas, 
opposed  reality  to  dreams.  "  We  have  no  contact  what- 
ever with  nature.  We  have  only  the  imperfect  perception 
of  exterior  forms.  It  is  impossible  for  man  to  enter  into 
communion  with  things.  Man  has  certainly  the  power  to 
inject  into  things  all  his  own  substance;  but  he  never 
receives  anything  in  return.  The  sea  will  never  speak  to 
him  in  an  intelligible  language,  the  earth  will  never  reveal 
to  him  its  secret.  Man  may  feel  all  his  blood  circulate  in 


THE   HERMITAGE.  l6l 

the  fibres  of  the  tree,  but  the  tree  will  never  give  him  one 
drop  of  its  vital  sap." 

Pointing  out  with  his  finger  such  or  such  a  marvel  of 
luxuriance,  the  one-eyed  old  peasant  said  : 

"  A  stableful  of  dung  performs  more  miracles  than  a 
churchful  of  saints." 

Pointing  with  his  finger  to  a  field  of  flowering  beans  at 
the  end  of  the  garden,  he  said  : 

"  The  bean  is  the  spy  of  the  year." 

The  field  undulated  almost  imperceptibly.  The  small 
leaves,  of  a  grayish  green,  agitated  their  thin  points  beneath 
the  white  or  azure  flowering.  Every  flower  resembled  a 
half-closed  mouth,  and  bore  two  spots,  black  as  eyes. 
Among  those  that  were  not  yet  faded,  the  superior  petals 
slightly  covered  the  spots,  like  pale  eyelids  on  pupils  which 
regard  sidewise.  The  quivering  of  all  those  lipped  and 
eyed  flowers  had  a  strange  animal  expression,  attractive  and 
indescribable. 

George  thought :  "  How  happy  Hippolyte  will  be  here  ! 
She  has  a  delicate  and  passionate  taste  for  all  the  humble 
beauties  of  the  earth.  I  remember  her  little  cries  of  admi- 
ration and  pleasure  on  discovering  some  plant  of  unknown 
form,  a  new  flower,  a  leaf,  a  bay,  a  bizarre  insect,  a  shadow, 
a  reflection."  He  pictured  her  to  himself,  slim  and 
agile,  in  graceful  attitudes,  among  the  verdure.  And  an 
anguish  suddenly  overwhelmed  him  :  the  anguish  of  taking 
her  again,  of  reconquering  her  entirely,  of  making  him- 
self loved  immensely  by  her;  of  giving  her  a  new  joy 
every  second.  "  Her  eyes  will  be  always  filled  with 
me.  All  her  senses  will  remain  closed  to  all  sensa- 
tions but  those  that  will  come  to  her  from  me.  My 
words  will  seem  to  her  more  delicious  than  any  other 
sound."  Suddenly  the  power  of  love  appeared  to  him 


l62  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

to  be  unlimited.  His  inner  life  acquired  a  vertiginous 
acceleration. 

When  he  mounted  the  stairway  of  the  Hermitage,  he 
believed  that  his  heart  would  break  under  the  pressure  of 
his  increasing  anxiety.  Arrived  at  the  loggia,  he  took  in 
the  landscape  with  an  intoxicated  look.  In  his  profound 
agitation,  he  believed  he  felt  that  at  that  minute  the  sun 
beamed  truly  on  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

The  sea,  stirred  by  an  equal  and  continuous  thrill, 
reflecting  the  happiness  scattered  in  the  sky,  seemed  to 
refract  this  happiness  in  myriads  of  inextinguishable 
smiles.  Through  the  crystal  air,  all  the  distant  vistas  were 
clearly  defined — the  Vasto  Point,  Mount  Gargano,  the 
Tremiti  Islands,  on  the  right ;  Cape  More,  the  Nicchiola, 
Cape  Ortona,  on  the  left.  The  white  Ortona  resembled  a 
glittering  Asiatic  city  on  a  hill  in  Palestine,  standing  boldly 
against  the  azure,  all  in  parallel  lines,  without  minarets. 
That  chain  of  promontories  and  gulfs,  in  the  shape  of  a  half- 
moon,  suggested  the  image  of  a  row  of  offerings,  because 
each  handle  bore  a  cereal  treasure.  The  furze  spread  its 
mantle  of  gold  over  the  entire  coast.  From  every  bush 
arose  a  dense  cloud  of  effluvia,  as  from  a  censer.  The  air 
respired  was  just  as  delicious  as  a  sip  of  elixir. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  first  few  days,  George  gave  all  his  care  to  the  little 
house  which  was  to  receive  the  New  Life  within  its  great 
peace ;  and  to  help  him  in  the  preparations  he  had  Colas 
di  Sciampagne,  who  seemed  expert  at  all  trades.  On  a 
band  of  fresh  plastering  he  had  written  with  the  point  of 
a  reed  this  old  device,  suggested  by  the  illusion :  Parva 
dowus,  magna  quies.  And  he  saw  a  favorable  presage  even 
in  the  three  blades  of  bay  sown  by  the  wind  between  the 
interstices  of  the  raised  edge  of  the  window. 

But,  when  all  was  ready  and  this  false  energy  had  gone, 
he  found  again  in  his  inmost  self  the  inquietude,  the  dis- 
content, and  that  implacable  anguish  the  true  cause  of  which 
he  did  not  know;  he  felt  confusedly  that  his  destiny  had 
once  more  pushed  him  into  an  oblique  and  perilous  pass. 
It  seemed  to  him  that,  from  another  house  and  from  other 
lips,  there  came  to  him  now  a  voice  of  recall  and  reproach. 
In  his  soul  there  revived  the  heartbreaking  farewells,  tear- 
less and  yet  so  cruel,  in  which  he  had  lied  from  shame  on 
reading  in  his  deceived  mother's  tired  eyes  the  question, 
too  sad  :  "  For  whom  are  you  abandoning  me  ?  " 

Was  it  not  this  mute  question,  the  recollection  of  that 
blush  and  that  lie,  which  inspired  him  with  the  inquietude, 
the  discontent,  and  the  anguish,  at  the  moment  that  he  was 
about  to  enter  the  New  Life  ?  And  how  could  he  silence 
that  voice  ?  By  what  intoxication  ? 

He  did  not  dare  reply.     In  spite  of  his  deep  trouble,  he 


164  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

wished  still  to  believe  in  the  promise  of  her  who  was  going 
to  come ;  he  hoped  to  be  able  still  to  attribute  to  his  love 
a  high  moral  signification.  Had  he  not  an  ardent  desire  to 
live,  to  give  to  all  the  forces  of  his  nature  a  rhythmic  devel- 
opment, to  feel  himself  complete  and  harmonious  ?  Love 
would  finally  effect  this  prodigy;  he  would  finally  find  in 
love  the  plenitude  of  his  humanity,  deformed  and  dimin- 
ished by  so  many  miseries. 

With  these  hopes  and  these  vague  tendencies,  he  sought  to 
cheat  his  remorse ;  but  what  dominated  him  in  presence 
of  this  woman's  image  was  always  desire.  In  despite  of  all 
his  platonic  aspirations,  he  could  not  succeed  in  seeing  in 
love  anything  else  but  the  work  of  the  flesh,  could  not  imag- 
ine the  days  to  come  but  as  a  succession  of  already  familiar 
sensual  pleasures.  In  that  benign  solitude,  in  the  company 
of  that  passionate  woman,  what  life  could  he  live,  if  not  a 
life  of  idleness  and  voluptuousness  ? 

And  all  the  past  sorrows  came  back  to  his  mind,  with  all 
the  painful  pictures  :  his  mother's  haggard  face  and  swollen 
red  eyes,  scorched  by  tears ;  Christine's  sweet  and  heart- 
broken smile ;  the  large  head  of  the  sickly  child,  always 
leaning  on  a  bosom  barren  of  all  but  sighs  ;  the  cadaveric 
mask  of  the  poor  idiotic  gormand. 

And  his  mother's  tired  eyes  asked  :  "  For  whom  are  you 
abandoning  me  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  the  afternoon.  George  explored  the  tortuous  path 
which,  by  a  succession  of  ups  and  downs,  led  towards  the 
Vasto  Point  on  the  edge  of  the  sea.  He  gazed  before  and 
around  him  with  a  curiosity  always  awake,  almost  betray- 
ing an  effort  to  be  attentive,  as  if  he  wished  to  surprise 
some  obscure  thought  translated  by  these  simple  semblances, 
or  to  render  himself  master  of  some  unseizable  secret. 

In  a  fold  of  the  hill  which  followed  the  sea  line,  the 
water  of  a  stream  derived  from  a  sort  of  small  aqueduct, 
made  from  hollowed  trunks  and  sustained  by  dead  trees, 
traversed  the  dale  from  one  shore  to  the  other.  There 
were  also  trenches  carried  in  hollow  tiles,  as  far  as  the  fer- 
tile field  where  the  crops  were  prospering;  and  here  and 
there  on  the  reflecting  and  murmuring  trenches,  beautiful 
violet  flowers  bent  with  airy  grace.  All  these  humble 
things  appeared  to  have  a  profound  life. 

And  the  excess  of  water  ran  and  spread  on  the  slope 
towards  the  sandy  beach,  passing  beneath  a  small  bridge. 
In  the  shade  of  the  arch,  several  women  were  washing  linen, 
and  their  gestures  were  reflected  in  the  water  as  in  a  mobile 
mirror.  On  the  beach,  the  linen  spread  out  in  the  sun  was 
of  dazzling  whiteness.  A  man  was  walking  along  the  rail- 
road tracks,  his  feet  naked,  carrying  his  shoes  hanging  in  his 
hand.  A  woman  came  out  of  the  toll -house  and,  with  a 
rapid  gesture,  threw  some  debris  from  out  of  a  basket.  Two 
little  girls,  loaded  with  linen,  were  running,  each  trying  to 


166  THE   TRIUMPH   Of   DEATH. 

outdo  the  other,  laughing.  An  old  woman  was  hanging 
blue-colored  skeins  from  a  pole. 

Beyond,  on  the  slope  of  the  earth  wall  that  bordered  the 
path,  small  shells  made  white  spots,  fragile  roots  fluttered 
in  the  wind.  The  traces  of  the  pickaxe  that  had  cut  into 
the  fawn-colored  earth  were  still  distinguishable.  From  the 
top  of  a  heap  of  earth  hung  a  tuft  of  dead  roots,  as  light  as 
the  scales  of  a  serpent. 

Farther  on  was  a  large  farmhouse,  with  a  porcelain 
flower  at  the  summit  of  its  tiled  roof.  An  outer  stairway 
led  up  to  a  covered  gallery.  At  the  head  of  the  stairway 
two  women  were  spinning,  and,  beneath  the  sun,  their  dis- 
taffs had  the  resplendency  of  gold.  One  could  hear  the 
clicking  of  a  weaving  machine.  Through  the  window  could 
be  seen  a  weaver,  and  her  rhythmic  gesture  as  she  plied  the 
shuttle.  Lying  down  in  a  neighboring  field  was  a  gray 
ox,  a  beast  of  enormous  size,  shaking  ears  and  tail,  peace- 
fully and  unceasingly ,  in  order  to  chase  away  the  flies. 
Around  him,  chickens  were  scratching. 

A  little  farther,  a  second  stream  traversed  the  path — 
laughing,  rippling,  gay,  frisking,  limpid. 

A  little  farther  on  still,  near  another  house,  there  was  a 
silent  garden,  full  of  bushy  laurels,  closed  all  round.  The 
stems,  slender  and  straight,  rose  up  motionless,  with  their 
crown  of  shining  foliage.  And  one  of  these  laurels,  the 
most  robust,  was  entirely  enveloped  by  a  large,  amorous  bry- 
onia  which  triumphed  over  the  austere  foliage  by  the  deli- 
cacy of  its  snowlike  flowers,  and  by  the  freshness  of  its 
nuptial  perfume.  Below,  the  earth  seemed  to  have  been 
newly  turned  over.  In  a  corner  a  black  cross  shed  over  the 
mute  enclosure  that  sort  of  resigned  sadness  which  reigns 
in  cemeteries.  At  the  end  of  the  path  could  be  seen  a 
stairway,  half  in  the  sun  and  half  in  the  shadow,  by  which 


THE    HERMITAGE.  167 

one  mounted  to  a  half -open  door,  which  protected  two 
branches  of  a  blessed  olive-tree,  suspended  at  the  rustic 
architrave.  Below,  on  the  last  step,  an  old  man  was 
seated,  asleep,  his  head  bare,  his  chin  on  his  breast,  his 
hands  resting  on  his  knees ;  and  the  sun  was  about  to  touch 
his  venerable  brow.  From  above,  through  the  half-open 
door,  as  if  to  favor  the  senile  slumber,  descended  the  equal 
sound  of  a  cradle  rocking  and  the  equal  cadence  of  a 
hummed  ballad. 
All  these  humble  things  seemed  to  have  a  profound  life. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HIPPOLYTE  announced  that,  according  to  her  promise, 
she  would  arrive  at  San  Vito,  Tuesday,  May  zoth,  by  train 
direct,  about  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

That  would  be  in  two  days.     George  wrote  to  her : 

"  Come,  come  !  I  await  you,  and  never  was  waiting 
more  tantalizing.  Eveiy  minute  that  passes  is  irremediably 
lost  to  happiness.  Come.  Everything  is  ready.  Or  rather, 
no,  nothing  is  ready,  save  my  desire.  It  is  necessary,  my 
friend,  that  you  provide  yourself  with  an  inextinguishable 
fund  of  patience  and  indulgence ;  because,  in  this  savage 
and  impracticable  solitude,  every  commodity  of  life  is 
lacking.  Oh,  how  impracticable  !  Picture  to  yourself, 
my  friend,  that  from  the  station  of  San  Vito  to  the  Her- 
mitage takes  three-quarters  of  an  hour  by  road ;  and  to 
cover  this  distance,  the  only  means  is  to  follow  on  foot  the 
path  cut  through  the  granite,  rising  perpendicularly  from 
the  sea.  You  must  be  careful  to  come  provided  with  heavy 
shoes,  and  gigantic  parasols.  As  to  dresses,  it  is  useless 
to  bring  many ;  a  few  gay  and  durable  costumes  for  our 
morning  walks  will  suffice.  Do  not  forget  your  bathing 
suit.  .  .  . 

"  This  letter  is  the  last  I  shall  write  you.  You  will  get 
it  a  few  hours  before  you  start.  I  am  writing  you  in  the 
library,  a  room  in  which  there  are  heaps  of  books  which 
we  are  hardly  likely  to  read.  The  afternoon  is  grayish,  and 
the  sea  stretches  out  in  endless  monotony.  The  hour  is 


THE   HERMITAGE.  169 

discreet,  languorous,  propitious  for  delicate  sensualities. 
Oh,  if  you  were  with  me  !  This  evening  will  be  my  sec- 
ond night  at  the  Hermitage,  and  I  shall  spend  it  alone.  If 
you  only  saw  the  bed !  It  is  a  rustic  bed,  a  monumental 
hymeneal  altar,  large  as  a  field,  deep  as  the  slumber  of  the 
just — thalamus  thalamorum  !  The  mattresses  contain  the 
wool  of  an  entire  flock,  the  straw-bed  contains  the  shucks  of 
an  entire  field  of  maize.  Can  these  chaste  things  have  the 
presentiment  of  your  nudity  ? 

"  Good-by,  good-by.  How  slowly  the  hours  go  by ! 
Who  says  time  has  wings  ?  I  do  not  know  what  I  would 
give  if  I  could  go  to  sleep  in  this  enervating  languor,  and 
not  awake  until  Tuesday  morning.  But  no,  I  will  not 
sleep.  I,  too,  have  killed  my  sleep.  I  have  the  constant 
vision  of  your  mouth." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FOR  several  days  voluptuous  visions  had  haunted  him  with- 
out a  truce.  Desire  awoke  in  his  flesh  with  inconceivable 
violence.  A  warm  puff  of  air,  a  waft  of  perfume,  the  rustle 
of  a  skirt,  mere  trifles,  sufficed  to  modify  his  entire  being, 
to  make  him  languorous,  to  light  up  his  face  with  a  flame, 
to  accelerate  the  pulsations  of  his  arteries,  to  throw  him 
into  an  agitation  bordering  on  delirium. 

At  the  profoundest  depths  of  his  substance  he  bore  the 
germs  inherited  from  his  father.  He,  the  creature  of 
thought  and  sentiment,  had  in  his  flesh  the  fatal  heredity  of 
that  brutish  being.  But  in  him  instinct  had  become  a 
passion,  and  sensuality  had  assumed  almost  morbid  forms. 
He  was  as  grieved  over  this  as  if  it  were  a  shameful  malady  : 
he  had  a  horror  of  these  fevers  which  assailed  him  unex- 
pectedly, which  consumed  him  miserably ;  which  left  him 
debased,  arid,  powerless  to  think.  He  suffered  from  cer- 
tain passions  as  though  they  degraded  him.  Certain  sud- 
den passages  of  brutality,  similar  to  hurricanes  over  a 
growing  field,  devastated  his  mind,  dried  up  all  his  inner 
sources,  made  painful  furrows  which  for  a  long  time  he 
could  not  succeed  in  filling  up. 

At  the  dawn  of  the  great  day,  as  he  awoke  after  a  few 
hours  of  a  restless  dozing,  he  thought,  with  a  thrill  of  all 
his  nerves  :  "  She  arrives  to-day  !  To-day,  in  the  light  of 
to-day,  my  eyes  will  see  her  !  I  will  hold  her  in  my  arms  ! 
It  almost  seems  to  me  as  if  it  will  be  the  first  possession; 


THE    HERMITAGE.  171 

it  seems  to  me,  too,  that  I  could  die  of  it."  The  vision 
conjured  up  gave  him  so  rude  a  shock  that  he  felt  his  body 
traversed  from  tip  to  toe  by  a  start  similar  to  that  caused  by 
an  electric  discharge.  In  him  appeared  those  terrible 
physical  phenomena  against  the  tyranny  of  which  he  was 
defenceless.  All  his  conscience  fell  beneath  the  absolute 
empire  of  desire.  Once  more  the  hereditary  lewdness 
broke  out  with  an  invincible  fury  in  this  delicate  lover 
whom  it  pleased  to  call  his  mistress  "  sister,"  and  who  had 
a  thirst  for  spiritual  communions.  He  contemplated,  in 
mind,  his  mistress's  beauty ;  and  every  contour,  seen  through 
the  flame,  assumed  in  his  eyes  a  radiant  splendor,  chimer- 
ical, almost  superhuman.  He  contemplated,  in  mind,  his 
mistress's  grace ;  and  every  attitude  assumed  a  voluptuous 
fascination  of  inconceivable  intensity.  In  her,  all  was 
light,  perfume,  and  rhythm. 

This  admirable  creature  he   possessed — he,    he   alone. 

But,  spontaneously,  as  the  smoke  rises  from  a 

poor   fire,  a  jealous  thought   disengaged  itself   from   his 

desire.     To  dissipate  the  agitation  which  he  felt  growing, 

he  sprang  from  the  bed. 

At  the  window,  at  dawn,  the  olive-tree  branches  had  an 
imperceptible  undulation,  pale,  between  gray  and  white. 
The  sound  of  the  sparrows  discreetly  twittering  was  heard 
above  the  dull,  monotonous  wash  of  the  sea.  In  a  stable  a 
lamb  bleated  timidly. 

He  went  out  into  the  loggia,  comforted  by  the  tonic  vir- 
tue of  a  bath,  and  drank  in  deeply  the  morning  air  charged 
with  savory  odors.  His  lungs  dilated;  his  thoughts  took 
their  flight,  agile,  each  marked  with  the  image  of  the 
waited-for  woman ;  a  feeling  of  renewed  youth  made  his 
heart  palpitate. 

Before  him  was  the  maturity  of  the  sun,  pure,  simpl*, 


172  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

without  a  vestige  of  clouds,  without  mystery.  Above  the 
silver  sea  arose  a  crimson  disk,  clearly  defined,  almost  sharp, 
like  a  disk  of  metal  fresh  from  the  forge. 

Colas  di  Sciampagne,  who  was  busy  cleaning  the  court, 
cried  out  to  him  : 

"  To-day  is  a  great  holiday.  The  lady  is  coming.  The 
corn  comes  into  the  ear  without  waiting  for  the  Ascension." 

George  smiled  at  the  courteous  remark  of  the  old  man, 
and  asked : 

"  Did  you  think  of  the  women  to  gather  the  furze  flowers  ? 
The  entire  length  of  the  road  must  be  strewn  with  them." 

The  old  man  gave  an  impatient  gesture,  as  if  to  signify 
that  he  required  no  reminder. 

"  I  sent  for  five  !" 

And  he  named  them,  showing  the  places  where  the  young 
girls  lived. 

"  The  Monkey's  daughter,  the  Ogress's  daughter,  Fav- 
etta,  Splendor,  and  Garbin's  daughter." 

These  names  provoked  in  George  a  sudden  mirth.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  all  the  spirit  of  springtime  entered  into 
his  heart,  that  a  wave  of  fragrant  poesy  inundated  it.  Did 
not  these  virgins  step  out  of  a  fairy  tale  to  strew  flowers  on 
the  road  under  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  Roman  ? 

He  abandoned  himself  to  the  anxious  enjoyment  of 
expectation.  He  asked,  restlessly : 

"  Where  are  they  gathering  their  harvest  of  furze  ?  " 

"Up  yonder,"  replied  Colas  di  Sciampagne,  pointing 
to  the  hillock;  "  up  yonder,  on  the  Chesnaie.  Their  sing- 
ing will  guide  you." 

In  fact,  a  feminine  chant  came  at  intervals  from  the  hill. 
George  started  up  the  incline,  in  search  of  the  singers. 
The  small,  tortuous  path  wound  through  a  copse  of  young 
oaks.  At  a  certain  place  it  branched  out  into  a  number  of 


THE    HERMITAGE.  173 

paths,  the  ends  of  which  could  not  be  seen ;  and  the  nar- 
row groves,  hollowed  between  the  thickets,  crossed  by  in- 
numerable roots  close  to  the  ground,  formed  a  sort  of 
mountainous  labyrinth  in  which  the  sparrows  twittered  and 
the  blackbirds  whistled.  George,  led  by  both  chant  and 
perfume,  did  not  go  astray.  He  found  the  field  of 
furze. 

It  was  a  plateau  on  which  the  furze  flourished  so  plenti- 
fully that  it  presented  to  the  eye  the  uniformity  of  a  vast 
yellow  mantle,  sulphur-colored,  resplendent.  The  five 
lasses  were  gathering  the  flowering  branches  in  order  to  fill 
their  baskets,  and  were  singing.  They  were  singing  at  the 
top  of  their  voices,  in  a  perfect  chord  of  the  third  and  fifth. 
When  they  came  to  the  refrain,  they  straightened  up  above 
the  bushes  to  permit  the  note  to  more  freely  emerge  from 
their  unconfined  chests ;  and  they  held  the  note  a  long 
time,  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  holding  before  them 
their  hands  full  of  flowers. 

At  the  sight  of  the  stranger  they  stopped,  and  bent  over 
the  bushes.  Ill-suppressed  laughter  ran  along  the  yellow 
carpet.  George  asked : 

"  Which  of  you  is  named  Favetta  ?  " 

A  young  girl,  brown  as  an  olive,  rose  to  reply,  astonished, 
almost  afraid. 

"  It  is  I,  signer." 

"  Aren't  you  the  best  singer  in  San  Vito  ?  " 

"  No,  signer.     That  is  not  true." 

"It  is  true,  it  is  true!"  cried  all  her  companions. 
"  Make  her  sing,  signer." 

She  denied  it,  laughing,  her  face  on  fire;  and  while  her 
companions  insisted,  she  twisted  her  apron.  She  was  of 
small  stature,  but  very  well  formed,  her  bosom  large  and 
heaving,  developed  by  singing.  She  had  curly  hair,  heavy 


174  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

eyebrows,  an  aquiline  nose,  a  rather  defiant  carriage  of  her 
head. 

After  several  refusals,  she  consented.  Her  companions 
threw  their  arms  around  her,  imprisoned  her  in  their  cir- 
cle. They  emerged  from  among  the  flowering  tufts  up  to 
their  waists,  amid  the  buzzing  of  the  diligent  bees. 

Favetta  commenced,  at  first  timidly ;  then,  note  by  note, 
her  voice  became  more  assured.  She  had  a  limpid  voice, 
fluid,  crystalline  as  a  spring  of  water.  She  sang  a  distich, 
and  her  companions  took  up  the  refrain  in  chorus.  They 
prolonged  the  final  notes  in  unison,  their  mouths  close 
together  so  as  to  make  but  one  vocal  wave ;  and  this  wave 
undulated  in  the  light  with  the  slowness  of  liturgic 
cadences. 

Favetta  sang : 

All  the  fountains  are  dry, 
My  love  is  dying  of  thirst, 
Tromme  lari,  lira.  .  .  . 
Love,  forever ! 

Love,  I  am  thirsty,  oh  !  so  thirsty. 
Where  is  the  water  you  bring  me  ? 
Tromme  lari,  lira.  .  .  . 
Love,  forever ! 

I  bring  you  a  bowl  of  potter's  clay, 
Suspended  from  a  chain  of  gold, 
Tromme  lari,  lira.  .  .  . 
Love,  forever  ! 

And  her  companions  repeated : 
Love,  forever ! 

This  salutation  of  May  to  love,  gushing  from  these 
bosoms,  which  perhaps  did  not  know  it  yet,  which  perhaps 


THE   HERMITAGE.  175 

would  never  know  its  veritable  sorrows,  resounded  in 
George's  ears  like  a  good  augury.  The  girls,  the  flowers, 
the  woods,  the  sea,  all  these  free  and  unconscious  things 
which  breathed  around  him  the  voluptuousness  of  life — all 
that  caressed  the  surface  of  his  soul,  soothed,  lulled  him 
in  the  habitual  sentiment  that  he  had  concerning  his  own 
being,  gave  him  an  increasing,  harmonious,  and  rhythmic 
sensation  of  a  new  faculty  which  had  developed  little  by 
little  in  the  intimacy  of  his  substance,  and  that  would  be 
revealed  to  him  in  a  very  vague  manner,  as  in  a  sort  of 
confused  vision  of  a  divine  secret.  It  was  a  fugitive  en- 
chantment, a  state  of  consciousness  so  exceptional  and 
so  incomprehensible  that  he  could  not  retain  even  its 
phantom. 

The  singers  pointed  to  the  already  overflowing  baskets 
— a  heap  of  flowers  humid  with  dew.  Favetta  asked  : 

"Will  that  do?" 

"  No,  no,  that  won't  be  enough.  Keep  on  gathering 
them.  The  entire  road  from  the  Trabocco  to  the  house  must 
be  strewn.  The  stairway,  the  loggia,  must  be  covered." 

"  But  what  shall  we  do  for  Ascension  Day  ?  Won't  you 
leave  a  single  flower  for  Jesus  ?  ' ' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SHE  had  arrived.  She  had  trod  on  the  flowers,  like  the 
Madonna  who  is  going  to  perform  a  miracle ;  she  had  trod 
on  a  carpet  of  flowers.  She  had  at  last  arrived  !  She  had 
at  last  crossed  the  threshold  ! 

And  now,  tired,  happy,  she  presented  to  her  lover's  lips 
a  face  all  bathed  in  tears,  without  speaking,  with  a  gesture 
of  inexpressible  abandon.  Tired,  happy,  she  wept  and 
smiled  beneath  the  innumerable  kisses  of  the  adored  one. 
What  mattered  the  recollections  of  the  days  from  which  he 
had  been  absent  ?  What  mattered  the  miseries,  the  chagrins, 
the  anxieties,  the  heart-breaking  struggles  against  the  inex- 
orable brutalities  of  life  ?  What  mattered  all  the  discour- 
agements and  all  the  despairs,  in  comparison  with  this 
supreme  joy  ?  She  lived,  she  respired  between  her  lover's 
arms;  she  felt  herself  infinitely  loved.  All  else  disap- 
peared, returned  to  oblivion,  seemed  to  have  never  existed. 

"  Oh,  Hippolyte,  Hippolyte  !  Oh,  my  soul  !  how  much, 
how  much  I  have  longed  for  you !  And  here  you  are ! 
And  now,  you  will  stay  with  me  a  long,  long  time,  will 
you  not  ?  Before  leaving  me,  you  will  kill  me." 

And  he  kissed  her  on  the  mouth,  on  the  cheeks,  on  the 
neck,  on  the  eyes,  insatiable,  profoundly  thrilled  every 
time  he  met  a  tear.  Those  tears,  that  smile,  that  expression 
of  felicity  on  the  tired-looking  face,  the  thought  that 
this  woman  had  not  hesitated  for  a  second  in  consenting ; 
the  thought  that  she  had  come  to  him  from  a  great  distance, 


THE    HERMITAGE.  177 

and  that,  after  a  fatiguing  journey,  she  wept  beneath  his 
kisses,  powerless  to  say  a  word  because  her  heart  was  too 
full — all  these  passionate  and  delightful  things  refined  his 
sensations,  freed  his  desire  from  impurity,  gave  him  an 
emotion  of  almost  chaste  love,  exalted  his  soul. 

Removing  the  long  pin  that  fastened  the  hat  and  veil, 
he  said : 

"  How  tired  you  must  be,  my  poor  Hippolyte  !  You  are 
very  pale  ! ' ' 

Her  veil  was  raised  on  her  brow;  she  still  had  on  her 
travelling  cloak  and  her  gloves.  He  removed  the  veil  and 
hat,  with  a  gesture  that  was  customary  with  him.  The 
beautiful  brown  head  appeared,  unencumbered,  with  that 
simple  coiffure  which  made  of  the  hair  a  sort  of  adherent 
helmet,  without  altering  the  delicate  and  elegant  outline 
of  the  occiput,  without  hiding  any  of  the  nape  of  the  neck. 

She  wore  a  gorget  of  white  lace,  and  a  narrow  black  vel- 
vet ribbon  which  was  defined  with  exquisite  violence  against 
the  whiteness  of  the  skin.  Under  the  cloak  could  be  seen 
a  gray  cloth  dress — the  dress  of  the  memorable  Albano 
days.  She  spread  around  her  a  faint  odor  of  violets,  the 
familiar  perfume. 

George's  lips  became  more  ardent,  and,  as  she  used  to 
say,  more  voracious.  He  checked  himself;  he  removed 
her  cloak ;  he  helped  her  to  remove  her  gloves ;  he  took 
her  bare  hands  and  pressed  them  against  his  temples,  in  a 
mad  desire  to  be  caressed.  And  Hippolyte,  holding  him 
thus  by  the  temples,  drew  him  towards  her,  enveloped  him 
in  a  long  caress,  passed  over  his  entire  face  a  mouth  which, 
languishing  and  warm,  crept  along  in  a  multiple  kiss. 
George  recognized  the  divine,  the  incomparable  mouth, 
the  mouth  which,  he  had  thought  so  often,  felt  as  if  it  rested 
on  the  surface  of  his  soul,  for  a  voluptuousness  which  would 
12 


178  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

surpass  carnal  sensibility  and  would  communicate  itself  to 
an  ultra-sensible  element  of  the  inner  being. 

"You  will  kill  me,"  he  murmured,  vibrating  like  a 
bundle  of  stretched  cords,  feeling  at  the  back  of  his  neck 
a  lancinating  cold  which,  from  vertebra  to  vertebra,  was 
propagated  through  all  the  marrow. 

And,  at  the  bottom  of  himself,  he  noticed  a  vague  move- 
ment of  that  instinctive  terror  which  he  had  already 
observed  under  other  circumstances. 

Hippolyte  disengaged  herself. 

"Now,  I'll  leave  you,"  she  said.  "Where  is — my 
room  ?  Oh,  George,  how  comfortable  we  shall  be  here. ' ' 

She  glanced  around  her,  smiling.  She  made  a  few  steps 
towards  the  threshold,  stooped  to  gather  a  handful  of  furze, 
breathed  in  the  perfume  with  visible  sensual  pleasure.  She 
once  more  felt  agitated,  and  as  if  intoxicated  by  this  sover- 
eign homage,  by  this  fragrant  glory  which  George  had  scat- 
tered along  her  path.  Was  she  not  dreaming  ?  Was  it  she 
herself — was  it  really  Hippolyte  Sanzio  who,  in  this  unknown 
place,  in  this  magic  landscape,  found  herself  surrounded 
and  glorified  by  all  this  poesy  ? 

Suddenly,  with  new  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  George's  neck,  and  said  : 

"  How  grateful  I  am  to  you." 

This  poesy  intoxicated  her  heart.  She  felt  herself  lifted 
above  her  humble  existence  by  the  ideal  apotheosis  which 
enveloped  her  lover ;  she  felt  that  she  lived  another  life,  a 
superior  life  which  at  times  gave  to  her  soul  that  kind  of 
choking  sensation  which  a  strong  wind  provokes  in  a  breast 
accustomed  to  breathe  an  impoverished  air. 

"  How  proud  I  am  to  belong  to  you  !  You  are  my  pride. 
One  single  minute  passed  near  you  suffices  to  make  me  feel 
another  woman,  absolutely  other.  You  suddenly  communi- 


THE    HERMITAGE.  179 

cate  to  me  another  blood  and  another  mind.  I  am  no 
longer  Hippolyte,  the  Hippolyte  of  yesterday.  Give  me  a 
new  name." 

He  named  her : 

"Soul!" 

They  fell  into  each  other's  arms  in  a  furious  embrace, 
as  if  to  pluck  and  unroot  the  kisses  which  blossomed  on 
their  lips.  Then  Hippolyte  disengaged  herself,  and  re- 
peated : 

"  Now,  I'll  leave  you.  Where's  my  room  ?  Let  me  see 
it." 

George  passed  an  arm  around  her  waist  and  led  her  into 
the  bedroom.  She  gave  a  cry  of  admiration  when  she  per- 
ceived the  thalamus  thalamorum,  draped  with  a  large  yellow 
damask  counterpane. 

"  But  we  shall  get  lost  in  it !  " 

And  she  laughed  as  she  walked  all  round  the  monument. 

"  The  most  difficult  thing  will  be  to  get  into  it." 

"  First,  you'll  place  your  foot  upon  my  knee,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  old-time  custom  of  the  peasants  in  these 
parts." 

"  What  a  lot  of  saints  !  "  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  the 
long  line  of  pious  images  on  the  wall,  at  the  head  of  the 
bed. 

"  They  must  be  covered." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right." 

Both  had  difficulty  in  finding  words;  both  their  voices 
were  changed  in  tone;  both  of  them  trembled,  agitated  by 
irresistible  desire,  feeling  almost  faint  at  the  thought  of 
the  approaching  ecstasies. 

They  heard  someone  knock  at  the  door  of  the  staircase. 
George  went  into  the  loggia.  It  was  Helen,  Candia's 
daughter ;  she  came  to  say  that  luncheon  was  ready. 


l8o  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"What  do  you  wish  to  do?"  said  George,  turning 
toward  Hippolyte,  irresolute,  almost  convulsed. 

"  Really,  George,  I  have  not  the  least  appetite.  I  will 
eat  this  evening,  if  you'll  let  me." 

In  an  agonized  voice,  George  said  : 

"  Come  into  your  room.  Everything  is  ready  for  your 
bath.  Come  !  " 

He  led  her  into  a  room  which  he  had  covered  all  over 
with  large  rustic  mats. 

"  You  see,  your  trunks  and  your  boxes  are  already  here. 
Now,  I'll  leave  you — alone.  Be  quick.  Remember,  I'm 
waiting.  Every  minute's  delay  will  be  one  torture  more. 
Remember ' ' 

He  left  her  alone.  A  few  moments  later  he  heard  the 
splashing  of  the  water  which  ran  from  the  enormous  sponge 
and  fell  back  again  into  the  bath-tub.  He  knew  the  icy 
coldness  of  this  spring  water  well,  and  he  imagined  the 
little  starts  of  Hippolyte's  body,  that  long  and  flexible 
body,  beneath  the  refreshing  shower. 

Then  there  remained  nothing  in  his  mind  than  thoughts 
of  fire.  Everything  about  him  disappeared.  And,  when 
the  splashing  stopped,  he  was  seized  by  a  trembling  so 
strong  that  his  teeth  began  to  chatter,  as  if  shivering  from 
a  mortal  fever.  With  the  terrible  eyes  of  desire,  he  saw 
the  woman  disengage  herself  from  her  dressing-gown, 
already  dried,  pure,  delicate  as  an  alabaster  with  golden 
tones. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MORE  fatigued  now,  almost  fainting,  H  ppolyte 
gradually  into  slumber.  By  degrees  the  smile  on  her  mouth 
became  unconscious,  disappeared.  Her  lips  met  for  a  sec- 
ond ;  then,  with  infinite  slowness,  they  opened,  and  from 
between  appeared  a  jasminelike  whiteness.  Again  the 
lips  met  for  a  second ;  and  again,  slowly,  very  slowly,  they 
parted,  and  from  between  reappeared  the  whiteness,  mois- 
tened. 

Raised  on  one  elbow,  George  looked  at  her.  She  appeared 
so  beautiful,  so  beautiful,  beautiful  in  the  same  way  as  he 
had  seen  her  the  first  time,  in  the  mysterious  oratory,  in 
front  of  the  philosopher  Alexander  Memmi's  orchestra; 
amidst  the  evaporated  perfume  of  the  incense  and  the 
violets.  She  was  pale,  very  pale,  just  as  on  that  day. 

She  was  pale,  but  it  was  that  singular  pallor  which 
George  had  never  found  in  any  other  woman — an  almost 
mortal  pallor,  a  profound  and  dead  pallor  which,  when 
in  the  shade,  became  almost  livid.  A  long  shadow  was 
cast  on  the  upper  part  of  her  cheeks  by  the  eyelashes ;  a 
masculine  shadow,  barely  perceptible,  veiled  the  upper 
lip.  The  mouth,  large  if  anything,  had  a  sinuous  curve, 
very  soft  and  yet  sad,  which,  in  the  absolute  silence,  took 
on  a  very  intense  expression. 

George  thought :  "  How  spiritual  her  beauty  becomes  in 
illness  and  in  languor !  Tired  as  she  is  now,  she  pleases 
me  more.  I  recognize  the  unknown  woman  who  passed 


182  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

before  me  that  February  evening — the  woman  who  had  not 
a  single  drop  of  blood  left  in  her  body.  I  believe  that  when 
she  is  dead  she  will  attain  the  supreme  perfection  of  her 
beauty.  .  .  .  Dead  ?  And  if  she  were  to  die  ?  She 
would  then  become  an  object  for  thought,  a  pure  ideality. 
I  should  love  her  after  life  without  jealous  inquietude,  with 
a  soothed  and  always  even  sorrow." 

He  recalled  that  in  other  circumstances  he  had  already 
imagined  Hippolyte's  beauty  in  the  peacefulness  of  death. 
"Oh,  that  day  of  the  roses!  Great  sheafs  of  white  roses 
languished  in  the  vases  in  June,  at  the  beginning  of  their 
love.  She  was  dozing  on  the  divan,  motionless,  almost 
breathless.  And  he  had  contemplated  her  for  a  long  time  ; 
then  a  sudden  phantasy  had  taken  him  to  cover  her  with 
roses,  softly,  softly,  so  as  not  to  awaken  her;  and  he  had 
arranged  a  few  roses  in  her  hair.  But  thus  flowered  and 
garlanded,  she  had  appeared  to  him  like  a  body  without  a 
soul,  a  corpse.  This  spectacle  had  filled  him  with  terror; 
he  had  shaken  her  to  arouse  her;  but  she  remained  inert, 
paralyzed  by  one  of  those  syncopes  to  which  she  was  subject  at 
that  time.  Oh,  what  terror,  what  anguish,  until  she  recov- 
ered her  senses  !  And  also  what  enthusiasm  for  the  sover- 
eign beauty  of  that  face,  which  was  so  extraordinarily  enno- 
bled by  that  reflection  of  death  !  "  This  episode  recurred 
to  his  memory;  but  while  he  lingered  over  these  strange 
thoughts,  he  felt  a  sudden  impulse  of  pity  and  of  remorse. 
He  bent  over  to  kiss  the  forehead  of  the  sleeper,  who 
remained  unconscious  of  his  kiss.  It  was  with  the  greatest 
difficulty  that  he  restrained  himself  from  embracing  her 
more  ardently,  so  that  she  might  be  cognizant  of  his 
caress,  and  respond  to  it.  And  then  he  felt  all  the  van- 
ity of  a  caress  which  would  not  be  to  the  loved  object  a 
rapid  communication  of  joy;  he  felt  all  the  vanity  of  a 


THE   HERMITAGE.  183 

love  which  would  not  be  a  continual  and  immediate  corre- 
spondence of  acute  sensations;  he  felt  the  impossibility  of 
becoming  intoxicated  unless  an  equally  intense  intoxication 
should  correspond  with  his  own. 

"  Am  I  certain,"  he  thought,  "  am  I  positively  certain 
that  always,  when  I  have  enjoyed  her,  she  has  enjoyed 
me  ?  How  often  has  she  been  present,  a  lucid  witness, 
during  my  moments  of  delirium  ?  How  often  has  my 
ardor  appeared  senseless  to  her  ?  "  A  heavy  wave  of  anxi- 
eties invaded  him  while  he  contemplated  the  sleeping 
woman.  "  The  true  and  profound  sensual  communion  is 
also  a  chimera.  The  senses  of  my  mistress  are  as  obscure 
as  her  soul.  Never  shall  I  succeed  in  surprising  in  her 
fibres  a  secret  disgust,  an  appetite  unsatisfied,  an  irritation 
unappeased.  Never  shall  I  succeed  in  knowing  the  differ- 
ent sensations  which  are  given  to  her  by  a  similar  caress 
repeated  at  different  moments.  In  the  course  of  a  single 
day,  an  organism  as  unhealthy  as  hers  passes  through  a 
great  number  of  physical  states,  each  in  discord  with  the 
other,  and  sometimes  in  complete  opposition.  Such  an 
instability  misleads  the  most  penetrating  clairvoyance.  The 
same  caress  which,  at  dawn,  draws  from  her  moans  of  pleas- 
ure, may,  an  hour  later,  seem  to  her  importunate.  Con- 
sequently, it  is  possible  that  her  nerves  become  hostile 
towards  me,  in  spite  of  her  will.  A  kiss  which  I  prolong 
too  far,  and  which  gives  me  the  vertigo  of  supreme  enjoy- 
ment, may  in  her  flesh  arouse  impatience.  In  the  matter  of 
sensuality,  however,  simulation  and  dissimulation  are  com- 
mon to  all  women,  to  those  who  love  and  to  those  who  do 
not.  What  do  I  say?  The  woman  who  loves,  the  passionate 
woman,  is  more  inclined  to  physical  simulation  and  dis- 
simulation ;  because  she  fears  to  grieve  her  lover  if  she 
shows  she  is  little  disposed  to  surrender  herself  entirely. 


184  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

Moreover,  the  passionate  woman  often  delights  in  exagger- 
ating the  semblance  of  pleasure ;  because  she  knows  well 
that  that  will  flatter  the  man's  virile  pride  and  increase  his 
ecstasy.  I  confess  that  a  proud  joy  swells  my  heart  when  I 
see  Hippolyte  delirious  with  sensual  delight.  I  feel  she  is 
happy  at  thus  showing  herself  so  vanquished  and  prostrated 
by  my  power;  and  she  also  knows  that  my  vain  ambition  as 
a  young  lover  is  precisely  to  succeed  in  making  her  plead 
for  mercy,  in  drawing  from  her  a  convulsive  cry,  in  seeing 
her  fall  back  exhausted  on  the  pillow.  Which,  then,  in  these 
demonstrations,  is  the  share  of  the  physical  sincerity  and  that 
of  the  passionate  exaggeration  ?  Is  not  her  ardor  an  artificial 
attitude,  assumed  to  please  me  ?  Does  she  not  often  sacri- 
fice herself  to  my  desire  without  desiring  me  ?  Has  she 
not,  at  times,  to  repress  a  commencement  of  repugnance  ?  " 

Attentive  and  almost  anxious,  he  leaned  over  the  impen- 
etrable creature.  But,  little  by  little,  the  contemplation 
of  her  beauty  seemed  to  appease  him.  And  he  began  to 
consider  his  new  state.  So,  from  this  day  on,  a  new  life 
commenced  for  him. 

For  a  minute,  he  concentrated  mind  and  ear,  in  order  to 
lose  nothing  of  the  great  peace  surrounding  him.  Only 
the  slow,  monotonous  wash  of  the  calm  sea  was  to  be  heard 
in  the  propitious  silence.  Against  the  window-panes  the 
branches  of  the  olive-tree  swayed  imperceptibly,  silvered 
by  the  sun,  balancing  light  shadows  on  the  whiteness  of 
the  curtains.  At  intervals  a  few  human  voices  were  heard, 
and  almost  unintelligible. 

After  this  perception  of  the  environing  peace,  he  leaned 
once  more  over  the  adored  one.  A  manifest  harmony 
existed  between  the  respiration  of  the  woman  and  the  respi- 
ration of  the  sea ;  and  the  concordance  of  the  two  rhythms 
gave  an  added  charm  to  the  sleeper. 


THE    HERMITAGE.  185 

She  reposed  on  her  right  side,  in  a  graceful  attitude. 
Her  form  was  supple  and  long,  rather  too  long  perhaps, 
but  of  serpentine  elegance.  The  narrowness  of  the  thigh 
made  it  resemble  that  of  an  adolescent.  The  sterile 
abdomen  had  preserved  its  primitive  virginal  purity.  The 
bosom  was  small  and  firm,  as  if  sculptured  in  very  delicate 
alabaster,  and  the  points  of  her  extraordinarily  erect 
breasts  were  of  a  rose-violet  hue.  The  posterior  part  of 
her  body,  from  the  nape  of  the  neck  down  to  the  middle, 
made  one  think  once  more  of  an  Ephebe  :  it  was  one  of 
those  fragments  of  the  ideal  human  type  which  Nature 
sometimes  throws  among  the  multitude  of  mediocre  im- 
prints by  which  the  race  perpetuates  itself.  But  the  most 
precious  singularity  of  this  body  was,  in  George's  eyes, 
the  coloration.  The  skin  had  an  indescribable  color,  very 
rare,  very  different  from  the  ordinary  color  of  brunettes. 
The  comparison  of  an  alabaster  gilded  by  an  inner  flame 
but  scarcely  conveyed  the  idea  of  this  divine  fineness.  It 
seemed  that  a  diffusion  of  gold  and  impalpable  amber 
enriched  the  tissues,  variegating  them  with  a  variety  of  har- 
monious pallors,  like  music,  darker  in  the  depressions  of 
the  loins  and  where  the  loins  join  the  sides,  lighter  on  the 
breast  and  on  the  groins,  where  the  epidermis  makes  its 
most  exquisite  suavity. 

George  thought  of  Othello's  words  :  "  I  had  rather  be  a 
toad,  and  live  upon  the  vapour  of  a  dungeon,  than  keep  a 
corner  in  the  thing  I  love  for  others'  uses." 

In  her  slumber,  Hippolyte  made  a  movement,  with  a 
vague  air  of  suffering,  which  disappeared  immediately. 
She  threw  back  her  head  on  the  pillow,  exposing  her  ex- 
tended breast,  on  which  was  defined  the  light  network  of 
the  veins.  Her  lower  jaws  were  rather  powerful,  the 
chin  rather  long  in  profile,  the  nostrils  broad.  In  the 


l86  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

abstract,  the  defects  of  her  head  were  accentuated;  but 
they  did  not  displease  George,  because  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  him  to  imagine  that  they  could  be  corrected 
without  removing  from  the  physiognomy  an  element  of 
living  expression.  The  expression,  that  immaterial  thing 
which  irradiates  all  matter,  that  changing  and  immeasurable 
force  which  invades  the  corporeal  face  and  transfigures  it, 
that  significative  external  which  superposes  a  symbolic 
beauty  of  an  order  far  more  elevated  and  complex  on  the 
precise  reality  of  the  lines — that  was  Hippolyte  Sanzio's 
great  charm,  because  it  offered  to  the  passionate  thinker  a 
continual  motive  of  emotions  and  dreams. 

"  Such  a  woman,"  he  thought,  "  has  belonged  to  others 
before  being  mine.  She  has  shared  the  couch  of  another 
man ;  she  has  slept  with  another  man  in  the  same  bed,  on 
the  same  pillow.  In  all  women  there  exists  a  sort  of  extra- 
ordinarily active  physical  memory,  the  memory  of  sensa- 
tions. Does  she  remember  the  sensations  which  she 
received  from  that  man  ?  Can  she  have  forgotten  him  who 
was  the  first,  and  who  violated  her  ?  What  were  her  feel- 
ings beneath  her  husband's  caress  ?  "  At  these  questions, 
which  he  repeated  to  himself  for  the  thousandth  time,  a 
well-known  anguish  oppressed  his  heart.  "  Oh  !  why  can 
we  not  put  to  death  the  creature  we  love,  and  resuscitate 
her  afterwards  with  a  virgin  body,  with  a  new  soul  ?  " 

He  recalled  certain  words  which  Hippolyte  had  said  in 
an  hour  of  supreme  intoxication :  "  You  are  embracing  a 
virgin;  I  have  never  known  any  voluptuousness  in  love." 

Hippolyte  was  married  the  spring  preceding  that  of 
their  love.  A  few  weeks  after  the  wedding,  she  had  begun 
to  suffer  from  a  slow  and  cruel  malady  which  had  confined 
her  to  bed,  and  kept  her  for  a  long  time  between  life  and 
death.  But,  happily,  this  malady  had  spared  her  all  new 


THE   HERMITAGE.  187 

contact  with  the  odious  man  who  had  seized  her  like  an 
inert  prey.  When  she  emerged  from  her  long  convalescence, 
she  gave  herself  up  to  passion  as  in  a  dream :  suddenly, 
blindly,  passionately,  she  abandoned  herself  to  the  young 
stranger  whose  soft  and  curious  voice  had  addressed  to  her 
words  she  had  never  heard  before.  And  she  had  not  lied 
when  saying  to  him  :  "  You  are  embracing  a  virgin ;  I 
have  never  known  any  voluptuousness." 

Since  then,  what  a  profound  change  in  this  woman  ! 
Something  new,  indefinable  yet  real,  had  entered  into  her 
voice,  into  her  gestures,  into  her  eyes,  into  her  slightest 
tones,  into  her  slightest  movements,  into  the  slightest 
external  signs.  George  had  been  present  at  the  most 
intoxicating  spectacle  of  which  an  intellectual  lover  can 
dream.  He  had  seen  the  loved  woman  become  metamor- 
phosed after  his  own  image,  borrow  his  thoughts,  his  judg- 
ments, his  tastes,  his  disdains,  his  predilections,  his 
melancholies,  all  that  which  gives  a  special  imprint  and 
character  to  the  mind.  In  speaking,  Hippolyte  used  the 
forms  of  speech  he  preferred,  pronounced  certain  words 
with  the  inflexion  peculiar  to  him.  In  writing,  she  imi- 
tated even  his  hand.  Never  had  the  influence  of  one  being 
on  another  been  so  rapid  and  so  strong.  Hippolyte  had 
merited  the  device  which  George  had  given  her :  Gravis 
dum  suavis.  But  this  grave  and  suave  creature,  she  in  whom 
he  had  succeeded  in  inculcating,  with  so  much  art,  the  dis- 
dain for  a  commonplace  existence,  among  what  humiliating 
contacts  had  she  spent  the  distant  hours  ? 

George  thought  again  of  his  anguish  of  long  ago,  when 
he  saw  her  go  away,  return  beneath  the  conjugal  roof,  into 
the  house  of  a  man  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  into  a  world 
of  which  he  knew  nothing,  into  the  platitudes  and  the  petti- 
ness of  the  middle-class  life  in  which  she  was  born,  and  in 


l88  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

which  she  had  grown  like  a  rare  plant  in  a  common  flower- 
pot. Had  she,  at  that  time,  never  hidden  anything  from 
him  ?  Had  she  never  lied  to  him  ?  Had  she  always  been 
able  to  withdraw  from  her  husband's  importunities  on  the 
pretext  that  her  cure  was  not  yet  complete  ?  Always  ? 

George  remembered  the  horrible  pang  he  felt  one  day 
when  she  came  late,  panting,  her  cheeks  more  colored  and 
warmer  than  usual,  with  a  persistent  odor  of  tobacco  in  her 
hair,  that  bad  odor  which  impregnates  him  who  remains 
a  long  time  in  a  room  where  there  are  many  smokers.  "  Par- 
don me,  if  I  am  late,"  she  had  said  to  him;  "  but  I  had 
several  of  my  husband's  friends  to  dinner,  and  they  kept 
me  until  now."  And  these  words  had  suggested  to  him  the 
vision  of  a  vulgar-looking  dining-table  around  which  the 
boors  exhibited  their  brutality. 

George  recalled  a  thousand  similar  little  details,  and  an 
infinity  of  other  cruel  sufferings,  and  also  recent  sufferings, 
caused  by  Hippolyte's  new  condition — her  stay  at  her 
mother's,  in  a  house  not  less  unknown  and  not  less  free  from 
suspicion.  "  At  last,  here  she  is  now  with  me  !  Every 
day,  every  minute,  continually,  I  shall  see  her,  I  shall 
enjoy  her;  I  will  see  that  her  thoughts  are  occupied  contin- 
ually with  me,  my  thoughts,  my  dreams,  my  sorrows.  I  will 
consecrate  to  her  every  instant,  uninterruptedly;  I  will 
invent  a  thousand  new  ways  of  pleasing  her,  of  agitating 
her,  of  making  her  sad,  of  exalting  her;  I  will  so  penetrate 
her  with  my  being  that  she  will  end  by  believing  me  to  be 
an  essential  element  of  her  own  life." 

He  bent  over  her  softly;  he  kissed  her  softly  on  the 
shoulder  near  the  arm,  on  that  little  rounded  eminence  of 
exquisite  form  and  color,  whose  skin  had  the  softness  of 
velvet  fine  enough  as  to  seem  almost  impalpable.  He 
respired  the  perfume  of  this  woman,  so  subtle  and  sweet, 


THE    HERMITAGE.  l8g 

that  cutaneous  perfume  which,  during  the  instant  of  pleas- 
ure, became  as  intoxicating  as  that  of  tuberoses  and  gave 
a  terrible  lash  to  desire.  Watching  thus  closely  the  sleep 
of  this  delicate  and  complicated  creature,  whom  slumber 
enveloped  in  a  mystery,  that  strange  creature  who  from 
every  pore  seemed  to  irradiate  towards  him  some  occult  fas- 
cination of  unbelievable  intensity,  he  remarked  once  more 
in  his  inner  self  a  vague  movement  of  instinctive  terror. 

Again  Hippolyte  changed  her  position,  without  awaken- 
ing, but  with  a  faint  moan.  She  turned  on  her  back.  A 
light  perspiration  imparted  a  dampness  to  her  temples ; 
through  her  half-closed  mouth  the  breathing  respired  came 
more  rapidly,  rather  irregularly;  at  moments,  her  eye- 
brows contracted.  She  was  dreaming.  Of  what  was  she 
dreaming  ? 

George,  seized  by  an  inquietude  which  soon  increased  to 
an  insane  anxiety,  set  himself  to  detect  upon  her  face  the 
slightest  indications,  in  the  hope  of  surprising  there  some 
revealing  sign.  Revealing  what  ?  He  was  incapable  of 
reflecting,  incapable  of  repressing  the  furious  tumults  of 
fears,  doubts,  and  suspicions. 

In  her  slumber  Hippolyte  started ;  her  entire  body  was 
convulsed  as  if  racked  by  nightmare ;  she  turned  over  on 
her  side  towards  George ;  she  groaned,  and  cried  : 

"No,  no!" 

Then  she  drew  two  or  three  breaths,  almost  like  sobs,  and 
started  again. 

A  prey  to  insane  fear,  George  watched  her  fixedly,  his 
ear  strained — fearing  to  hear  other  words,  another's  name, 
the  name  of  a  man  !  He  waited,  in  horrible  uncertainty, 
as  if  under  the  menace  of  a  thunderbolt  which  could 
destroy  him  in  a  second. 

Hippolyte   awoke;    she    saw    him    confusedly,    without 


igo  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

thinking,  still  sleeping;  she  nestled  close  up  to  Ilim,  with 
an  almost  unconscious  movement. 

"Of  what  were  you  dreaming?"  he  asked  her,  in  a 
changed  voice  which  seemed  to  reverberate  his  heart- 
beats. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  answered,  languid,  still  drowsy, 
leaning  her  cheek  on  her  lover's  breast.  "  I  don't  remem- 
ber." 

She  fell  asleep  again. 

Under  the  soft  pressure  of  her  cheek,  George  remained 
motionless,  with  a  dull  rancor  at  the  bottom  of  his  soul. 
He  felt  himself  a  stranger  to  her,  isolated  from  her,  use- 
lessly curious.  All  his  bitter  recollections  came  back  to 
him  in  a  tumult.  He  lived  over  again,  in  a  single  instant, 
his  miseries  of  two  years.  He  could  oppose  nothing  to 
the  immense  doubts  which  crushed  his  soul  and  made  the 
head  of  his  loved  one  seem  as  heavy  as  a  rock. 

Suddenly  Hippolyte  started  a  second  time,  moaned, 
twisted,  cried  again.  And  she  opened  her  eyes,  frightened, 
groaning. 

"Oh!  my  God!" 

*'  What  ails  you  ?     Of  what  were  you  dreaming  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

Her  face  was  contracted  convulsively. 

She  added : 

"  You  must  have  been  leaning  on  me.  I  thought  you 
were  pushing  me,  hurting  me." 

She  suffered  visibly. 

"  Oh  !  my  God  !     My  pains  have  come  back." 

Since  her  illness,  she  sometimes  had  short  attacks, 
spasms  that  quickly  passed,  but  whose  passage  forced  from 
her  a  groan  or  cry. 

She  turned  towards  George,  looked  fixedly  into  his  eyes, 


THE  HERMITAGE.  t$t 

and  found  there  the  traces  of  the  tempest.  And  in  a  coax- 
ing, reproachful  tone  she  repeated  : 

"You  did  so  hurt  me  !  " 

All  at  once  George  seized  her  in  his  arms,  clasped  her 
passionately  to  his  breast,  and  smothered  her  under  his 
kisses. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

As  the  air  was  of  an  almost  summer-like  warmth,  George 
proposed : 

"  Shall  we  dine  outside  ?  " 

Hippolyte  consented.     They  went  down. 

On  the  stairway  they  held  each  other's  hand ;  and  went 
down  step  by  step  slowly,  stopping  to  look  at  the  crushed 
Sowers,  turning  round  towards  each  other  simultaneously,  as 
if  they  saw  each  other  for  the  first  time.  Each  saw  in  the 
other  eyes  larger,  more  profound,  as  if  more  distant,  and 
circled  by  an  almost  supernatural  shadow.  They  smiled  at 
each  other  without  speaking,  both  dominated  by  the  charm 
of  that  indefinable  sensation  which  seemed  to  disperse  into 
the  uncertainty  of  space  the  substance  of  their  being, 
transformed  into  a  fluid  like  a  vapor.  They  walked  towards 
the  parapet ;  they  stopped  to  look  around,  to  listen  to  the 
sea. 

What  they  saw  was  unusual,  extraordinarily  great,  yet  illu- 
mined by  an  inner  light  and  as  if  by  an  irradiation  of  their 
hearts.  What  they  heard  was  unusual,  extraordinarily  high, 
yet  contemplated  as  if  a  secret  revealed  to  them  alone. 

A  second,  as  quickly  passed  !  They  were  recalled  to 
themselves,  not  by  a  gust  of  the  wind  nor  by  the  noise  of 
a  wave,  nor  by  a  bellowing,  nor  by  a  bark,  nor  by  a  human 
voice,  but  by  the  very  anxiety  which  arose  from  their  too 
intense  joy.  A  second,  as  quickly  passed,  irrevocable  !  And 
both  recommenced  to  feel  that  life  was  slipping  by,  that 


THE    HERMITAGE.  IQ3 

time  was  flying;  that  everything  was  becoming  once  more 
foreign  to  their  being,  that  their  souls  were  becoming  anx- 
ious again  and  their  love  imperfect.  This  second  of 
supreme  oblivion,  this  unique  second,  was  gone  forever. 

Hippolyte,  moved  by  the  solemnity  of  the  solitude, 
oppressed  by  a  vague  fright  in  the  presence  of  those  vast 
waters,  beneath  that  desert  sky,  which,  from  the  zenith  to 
the  horizon,  paled  by  slow  gradations,  murmured : 

"  What  endless  space  !  " 

It  seemed  now  to  both  that  the  point  of  space  in  which 
they  breathed  was  infinitely  distant  from  the  frequented 
spots,  out  of  the  way,  isolated,  unknown,  inaccessible,  almost 
outside  of  the  world.  Now  they  saw  the  wish  of  their 
hearts  realized,  they  both  felt  the  same  inward  terror,  as 
if  they  foresaw  their  impotence  to  sustain  the  plenitude  of 
the  new  life.  For  a  few  instants  longer,  silent,  standing 
side  by  side,  but  apart,  they  continued  to  contemplate  the 
melancholy  and  icy  Adriatic,  whose  great  white-capped 
waves  sported  in  endless  playfulness.  From  time  to  time 
a  stiff  breeze  swept  through  the  tufts  of  the  acacias,  bear- 
ing off  their  perfume. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking?"  asked  George,  drawing 
himself  up,  as  if  to  rebel  against  the  importunate  sadness 
which  was  about  to  conquer  him. 

He  was  there,  alone  with  his  mistress,  living  and  free ; 
and,  nevertheless,  his  heart  was  not  satisfied.  Did  he,  then, 
bear  in  himself  an  inconsolable  hopelessness  ? 

Feeling  anew  a  separation  between  the  silent  creature 
and  himself,  he  took  her  again  by  the  hand,  and  gazed  into 
the  pupils  of  her  eyes. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Rimini,"  answered  Hippolyte,  with 
a  smile. 

13 


194  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Always  the  past !  She  remembers  bygone  days  at  such 
a  moment !  Was  it  the  same  sea  which  lay  extended  before 
their  eyes,  veiled  in  the  same  illusion  ?  His  first  motion 
was  one  of  hostility  against  the  unconscious  evocatrice. 
Then,  as  if  in  a  lightning  flash,  with  sudden  uneasiness,  he 
saw  all  the  summits  of  his  love  light  up,  and  scintillate  in 
the  past,  prodigiously.  Far-distant  things  came  back  to 
his  memory,  accompanied  by  waves  of  music  which  exalted 
and  transfigured  them.  He  lived  again,  in  one  second,  the 
most  lyric  hours  of  his  passion,  and  he  lived  them  again 
in  propitious  places,  among  the  sumptuous  scenery  of 
nature  and  art  which  had  rendered  his  joy  nobler  and  more 
profound.  Why  then,  now,  in  comparison  with  that  past, 
had  the  moment  just  previous  lost  part  of  its  charm  ?  In 
his  eyes,  dazzled  by  the  rapid  gleam  of  his  recollections, 
everything  now  seemed  colorless.  And  he  perceived  that 
the  progressive  diminution  of  the  light  caused  him  a  kind 
of  indefinable  corporeal  uneasiness,  as  if  this  external 
phenomenon  were  in  immediate  correspondence  with  some 
element  of  his  own  life. 

He  sought  some  phrase  that  would  bring  Hippolyte  closer 
to  him,  to  attach  her  to  him  by  some  sensitive  tie,  to  restore 
to  himself  of  the  present  reality  the  exact  feeling  which  he 
had  just  lost.  But  this  search  was  painful  to  him ;  the 
ideas  escaped  him,  dispersed,  left  him  void. 

As  he  had  heard  a  rattle  of  plates,  he  asked : 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?  " 

This  question,  suggested  by  a  slight  material  fact,  and 
propounded  unexpectedly,  with  puerile  vivacity,  made  Hip- 
polyte smile. 

"Yes,  a  little,"  she  anwered,  smiling. 

And  they  turned  round  to  look  at  the  table  spread  be- 
neath the  oak.  In  a  few  minutes  the  dinner  would  be  ready. 


THE    HERMITAGE.  195 

"  You  must  be  satisfied  with  what  there  is,"  said  George, 
"  Very  countrified  cooking." 

"  Oh  !  I  should  be  very  well  satisfied  with  grass." 

And,  gayly,  she  approached  the  table,  examined  with 
curiosity  the  cloth,  the  knives  and  forks,  the  glassware,  the 
plates,  found  everything  pretty;  rejoiced  like  a  child  at 
the  sight  of  the  large  flowers  which  decorated  the  white 
and  fine  porcelain. 

"  Everything  here  pleases  me,"  she  said. 

She  bent  over  a  large  round  loaf  of  bread,  yet  warm 
beneath  its  beautiful  browned  and  rounded  crust.  She 
breathed  in  the  odor  with  delight. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  delightful  odor  !  " 

And,  with  childish  greediness,  she  broke  off  the  crusty 
edge  of  the  loaf. 

"  What  fine  bread  !" 

Her  white  and  strong  teeth  shone  in  the  bitten  bread; 
the  play  of  her  sinuous  mouth  expressed  vigorously  the 
pleasure  enjoyed.  In  this  act,  her  whole  person  shed  a 
pure  and  simple  grace  which  seduced  and  surprised  George 
as  if  it  were  an  unexpected  novelty. 

"  Here  !  taste  how  good  it  is." 

And  she  handed  him  the  piece  of  bread  on  which  was 
imprinted  the  humid  trace  of  her  bite ;  and  she  pushed  it 
between  his  lips,  laughing,  imparting  the  sensual  contagion 
of  her  hilarity. 

"Just  see!" 

He  found  the  taste  delicious ;  and  he  abandoned  him- 
self to  this  fugitive  enchantment,  permitted  himself  to  be 
enveloped  by  this  seduction  which  seemed  a  novelty.  A 
mad  longing  suddenly  seized  him  to  embrace  the  temp- 
tress, to  lift  her  in  his  arms,  to  carry  her  off  like  a  prey. 
His  heart  swelled  with  a  confused  aspiration  towards  phys- 


196  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

ical  force,  towards  robust  health,  towards  an  almost  savage 
life  of  joy,  towards  simple  and  primitive  love,  towards  the 
great  primordial  liberty.  He  felt  a  sudden  desire  to  rend 
the  mortal  frame  which  oppressed  him,  to  leave  it  and  be 
entirely  renewed,  indemnified  for  all  the  woes  he  had 
suffered,  for  all  the  deformity  which  had  hindered  his  flight. 

He  had  the  hallucination  of  a  future  existence  which 
would  be  his,  and  in  which,  freed  from  every  harmful  habit, 
from  every  foreign  tyranny,  from  every  bad  error,  he  would 
look  at  things  as  if  he  saw  them  for  the  first  time  and  had 
before  him  all  the  surface  of  the  World,  exposed  like  a 
human  visage. 

"  Was  it  then  impossible  that  the  miracle  should  come 
from  this  young  woman,  who,  at  the  stone  table,  beneath 
the  protecting  oak,  had  broken  the  new  bread  and  shared 
it  with  him  ?  Could  not  the  New  Life  really  commence 
from  to-day  ?  " 


IV. 

THE    NEW    LIFE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

OVER  the  Adriatic  swept  the  humid  and  oppressive  heat 
of  the  east  wind.  The  sky  was  cloudy,  nebulous,  white  as 
milk.  The  sea,  having  lost  all  motion  and  all  materiality, 
seemed  mingled  with  the  diffused  vapors  in  the  distance — 
very  white,  without  respiration.  A  white  sail,  a  single 
white  sail — so  rare  a  thing  in  the  Adriatic — was  visible  yon- 
der, near  the  Diomede  Islands,  motionless,  indefinitely 
lengthened  by  the  reflection  of  the  water,  the  visible  centre 
of  this  inert  world,  which  gradually  seemed  to  evaporate. 

Seated  in  a  tired  attitude,  on  the  parapet  of  the  loggia, 
Hippolyte  fixed  her  gaze  on  the  sail,  her  eyes  magnetized 
by  its  whiteness.  A  little  bent,  her  whole  figure  relaxed, 
she  had  an  air  of  stupor,  almost  of  hebetude,  which  revealed 
the  momentary  eclipse  of  her  inner  life.  And  this  absence 
of  expressive  energy  accentuated  all  that  there  was  com- 
monplace and  irregular  in  her  features,  rendered  heavier 
the  lower  part  of  her  face.  Even  the  mouth — that  elastic 
and  sinuous  mouth — whose  contact  had  so  often  communi- 
cated to  George  a  sort  of  instinctive  and  indefinable  terror, 
seemed  now  despoiled  of  its  bewitching  charm,  and  reduced 
to  the  physical  appearance  of  a  vulgar  organ  which  only 


198  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

recalled    kisses    as    a    mechanical    art    deprived    of    all 
beauty. 

George  considered  with  attention  and  clear-sightedness 
the  naked  reality  of  this  unconscious  woman,  with  whose 
life  he  had,  up  to  now,  so  furiously  joined  his  own  life. 
And  he  thought :  "  In  an  instant,  all  has  ended.  The 
flame  is  extinguished.  I  love  her  no  longer ! 
How  has  that  happened  so  quickly  ?  "  What  he  felt  was 
not  only  the  disgust  following  abuse,  that  carnal  aversion 
which  follows  prolonged  pleasures,  but  a  more  profound 
detachment  which  seemed  to  him  definite  and  irremedi- 
able. "  How  could  anyone  still  love,  after  having  seen 
what  I  see  ?  ' '  The  usual  phenomenon  took  place  in  him ; 
with  its  first  perceptions,  real,  isolated  and  exaggerated, 
he  composed  by  association  an  inner  phantom  which  gave 
to  his  nerves  a  much  stronger  impulse  than  the  present 
object.  Henceforth,  what  he  saw  in  Hippolyte's  person 
with  inconceivable  intensity  was  the  sexual  being  ex- 
clusively, the  inferior  being  deprived  of  all  spiritual  value, 
a  simple  instrument  of  pleasure  and  of  luxury,  the  instru- 
ment of  ruin  and  of  death.  And  he  had  a  horror  of  his 
father  !  But,  after  all,  was  he  not  doing  the  same  thing  ? 
And  the  recollection  of  the  concubine  crossed  his  mind ; 
he  found  in  his  memory  certain  details  of  the  horrible 
altercation  with  that  odious  man,  in  the  country  house,  in 
front  of  the  open  window  through  which  he  had  heard  the 
cries  of  the  little  bastards,  in  front  of  the  large  table 
littered  with  papers  on  which  he  had  perceived  the  disk  of 
glass  and  the  obscene  vignette. 

"  How  heavy  the  air  is  !  "  murmured  Hippolyte,  remov- 
ing her  gaze  from  the  white  sail,  which  still  remained 
motionless  in  the  infinite.  "  Does  it  not  oppress  you, 
too  ?" 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  IQ9 

She  rose,  took  a  few  listless  steps  towards  a  willow  seat, 
provided  with  cushions,  and  sank  down  as  if  dead  with 
fatigue,  sighing  deeply,  throwing  back  her  head,  half -clos- 
ing her  eyes,  the  curved  lids  of  which  trembled.  She  had 
suddenly  become  very  beautiful  again.  Her  beauty  was 
rekindled,  unexpectedly,  like  a  torch. 

"  When  will  the  mistral  blow  ?  Look  at  that  sail.  It 
is  always  in  the  same  place.  It's  the  first  white  sail  since 
my  arrival.  It  seems  as  if  I  dream  it  is  there." 

As  George  remained  silent,  she  added : 

"  Have  you  seen  any  others  ?  " 

"  No ;  it's  the  first  I  have  seen,  too  !  " 

"  From  where  did  it  come  ?  " 

"  From  Gargano,  perhaps." 

"  And  where  is  it  going  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  to  Ortona." 

"What  is  her  cargo  ?" 

"  Perhaps  oranges." 

She  began  to  laugh ;  and  even  her  laugh,  enveloping  her 
as  if  in  a  live  wave  of  freshness,  transfigured  her  anew. 

"  Look,  look  !  "  she  cried,  raising  herself  on  one  elbow 
and  pointing  to  the  horizon  of  the  sea,  where  it  appeared  as 
if  a  curtain  had  fallen.  "  Five  other  sails,  over  there  in 
file.  Do  you  see  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see  them." 

"There  are  five  ?  " 

"Yes,  five." 

"  More,  more  !  Over  there  !  Look,  another  file  !  What 
a  number  there  are  !  " 

The  sails  appeared  at  the  extreme  limit  of  the  sea,  red 
like  little  flames,  motionless. 

"  The  wind  is  changing.  I  feel  that  the  wind  is  chang- 
ing. Look  there,  how  the  water  is  beginning  to  ripple." 


200  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

A  sudden  breeze  assailed  the  tufts  of  the  acacias,  which, 
bending  on  their  stems,  shed  several  blossoms  like  dead 
butterflies.  Then,  before  those  light  remains  could  touch 
the  earth,  all  was  at  peace  again.  During  the  interval  of 
silence,  the  low  murmur  of  the  water  as  it  was  dashed 
against  the  beach  could  be  heard ;  and  this  murmur  died 
away  with  the  flight  of  the  wave  as  it  passed  along  the 
shore,  and  then  ceased. 

"Did  you  hear  it?" 

She  had  risen  and  leaned  on  the  parapet,  listening 
intently,  in  the  attitude  of  a  musician  who  is  tuning  his 
instrument. 

"  Here  is  the  wave  coming  back,"  she  cried  again, 
pointing  to  the  mobile  rippling  of  the  water,  upon  which 
the  shower  was  advancing;  and  she  waited,  animated  by 
impatience,  ready  to  fill  her  lungs  with  the  wind. 

After  a  few  seconds  the  acacias,  assailed,  once  more  bent 
on  their  stems,  causing  a  shower  of  other  flowers.  And  the 
strong  gust  bore  as  far  as  the  loggia  the  saline  odor  mingled 
with  the  perfume  of  the  withered  bunches.  A  silvery 
sound,  of  singular  harmony,  filled  with  its  kettledrum 
vibrations  the  concavity  of  the  little  bay  between  the  two 
promontories. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  said  Hippolyte,  in  a  low  but  exulting 
voice,  as  if  this  music  had  penetrated  as  far  as  her  soul, 
and  that  all  her  life  were  participating  in  the  vicissitudes 
of  the  things  around  her. 

George  followed  all  her  actions,  all  her  gestures,  all  her 
movements,  every  word,  with  such  intense  attention  that 
the  rest  was  for  him  as  if  it  had  never  existed.  The  preced- 
ing image  no  longer  coincided  with  the  actual  appearance, 
although  it  still  dominated  his  mind  to  the  extent  of  main- 
taining the  profound  sensation  of  the  moral  detachment, 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  2OI 

and  of  preventing  him  from  replacing  this  woman  in  her 
first  frame,  of  not  reestablishing  her  in  her  original  state 
of  being,  of  not  reintegrating  her.  But  from  every  one  of 
these  actions,  from  every  one  of  these  gestures,  from  every 
one  of  these  movements,  from  every  one  of  these  words, 
emanated  an  inevitable  power.  All  these  physical  mani- 
festations seemed  to  compose  a  web  which  trapped  him, 
and  held  him  prisoner.  It  seemed  that  between  this  woman 
and  himself  there  was  formed  a  sort  of  corporeal  bond,  a 
sort  of  organic  dependence,  a  correspondence  by  virtue  of 
which  the  slightest  gesture  provoked  in  him  an  involuntary 
sensual  modification,  and  that  henceforth  he  would  no 
longer  be  capable  of  living  and  feeling  independently. 
How  could  he  reconcile  this  evident  affinity  with  the 
occult  hate  which  he  had  just  discovered  at  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  ? 

Hippolyte,  through  a  spontaneous  curiosity,  through  an 
instinctive  desire  to  multiply  her  sensations  and  to  make  the 
surrounding  neighborhood  part  of  herself,  was  still  absorbed 
in  the  spectacle.  The  facility  she  exhibited  in  entering 
into  communication  with  every  form  of  natural  life  and  of 
finding  a  world  of  analogies  between  human  expressions  and 
the  appearances  of  the  most  diverse  things ;  this  rapid  and 
diffuse  sympathy,  which  attached  her  not  only  to  objects 
with  which  she  was  in  daily  contact,  but  also  to  foreign 
objects ;  that  sort  of  imitative  virtue  which  often  permitted 
her  to  express  by  a  single  sign  the  distinctive  character  of 
an  animate  or  inanimate  being,  of  talking  to  the  domestic 
animals  and  understanding  their  language — all  these  mimic 
faculties  properly  concurred  in  rendering  more  visible,  in 
George's  eyes,  the  predominance  in  her  of  the  inferior  life. 

"  What's  that?  "  she  said,  surprised  at  noticing  a  sudden, 
mysterious  rumbling.  "  Didn't  you  hear  it  ?  " 


262  f H£   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

It  was  like  a  dull  blow,  which  other  blows  followed  in 
rapid  succession — blows  so  strange  that  it  could  not  be 
discerned  if  they  came  from  near  or  far,  in  the  air  that 
became  more  and  more  limpid. 

"  Didn't  you  hear  that  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  distant  thunder." 

"Oh,  no!" 

"What,  then?" 

They  looked  around  them,  perplexed.  Every  moment 
the  sea  was  changing  color  in  proportion  as  the  sky  became 
clearer;  here  and  there  it  took  on  that  shade  of  indefinable 
green,  like  unripe  flax,  as  when  the  sun's  oblique  rays  pass 
through  the  diaphanous  stems  in  an  April  twilight. 

"  Ah  !  it's  the  sail  flapping — that  white  sail,  yonder," 
cried  Hippolyte,  happy  at  being  the  first  to  discover  the 
mystery.  "  Look.  She's  caught  the  wind.  She's  off." 


CHAPTER  II. 

WITH  a  few  intervals  of  drowsy  indolence,  she  felt  a  mad 
desire  to  wander  off,  to  venture  out  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
to  scour  the  beach  and  surrounding  country,  to  explore 
unfamiliar  paths.  She  stimulated  her  companion ;  at  times 
she  carried  him  off  almost  by  force ;  at  times,  too,  she 
started  off  alone,  and  he  joined  her  unexpectedly. 

In  order  to  climb  a  hill,  they  followed  a  small  pathway 
bordered  by  thick  hedges  of  violet  flowers,  among  which 
blossomed  the  large  and  delicate  calices  of  other  snowy 
fragrant  flowers  with  fine  petals.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
hedges,  ears  of  corn  waved  to  and  fro  on  their  stems,  yel- 
lowish-green in  color,  more  or  less  ready  to  change  into 
gold ;  and  in  other  places  the  corn  was  so  thick  and  high 
that  it  towered  over  the  tops  of  the  hedges,  suggesting  a 
beautiful,  overflowing  cup. 

Nothing  escaped  Hippolyte's  vigilant  eye.  Every  min- 
ute she  stooped  to  blow  away  certain  spheres  of  down,  very 
fragile,  at  the  tips  of  their  long,  slender  peduncles.  Every 
minute  she  stopped  to  observe  the  small  spiders  climbing 
by  an  invisible  thread  from  a  flower  situated  low  down  to  a 
branch  above. 

On  the  hill,  in  a  narrow,  sunny  circle,  there  was  a  small 
field  of  flax  already  dry.  The  yellowish  stems  bore  at  their 
summits  a  ball  of  gold,  and  here  and  there  the  gold 
seemed  tarnished  by  an  ironlike  rust.  The  highest  stems 
were  waving  almost  imperceptibly.  And,  because  of  this 


204  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

extreme  lightness,  the  whole  gave  the  idea  of  some  deli- 
cate piece  of  gold-work. 

"  Look,  it  is  just  like  filigree  !  "  said  Hippolyte. 

The  furze  was  commencing  to  shed  its  flowers.  A  few 
feet  away  hung  a  sort  of  white  foam  in  flakes ;  on  others 
crawled  large  black  and  brown  caterpillars,  soft  to  the 
touch  as  velvet.  Hippolyte  took  up  one  whose  delicate 
down  was  streaked  with  vermilion,  and  she  kept  it  calmly 
on  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

"  It  is  more  beautiful  than  a  flower,"  she  said. 

George  remarked,  and  it  was  not  the  first  time,  that  she 
was  almost  totally  devoid  of  instinctive  repugnance  towards 
insects,  and  that,  in  general,  she  did  not  feel  that  keen  and 
invincible  repulsion  which  he  himself  felt  for  a  host  of 
things  considered  unclean. 

"  Throw  it  away,  I  beg  of  you  !  " 

She  began  to  laugh,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  as  if  to 
put  the  caterpillar  on  his  neck.  He  gave  a  cry  and 
sprang  back,  which  made  her  laugh  all  the  more. 

"  Oh,  what  a  brave  man !  " 

In  a  spirit  of  mischief,  she  started  to  pursue  him  between 
the  trunks  of  the  young  oaks,  through  the  narrow  paths  that 
formed  a  sort  of  mountainous  labyrinth.  Her  peals  of 
laughter  started  from  between  the  gray  stones  flocks  of  wild 
sparrows. 

"  Stop  !     Stop  !     You  frighten  the  sheep." 

A  small  flock  of  frightened  sheep  dispersed,  dragging 
behind  them  up  the  rocky  incline  a  bundle  of  bluish  rags. 

"  Stop.     I  have  it  no  longer.     See." 

And  she  showed  the  runaway  her  empty  hands. 

"  Let  us  help  the  Mute." 

And  she  ran  towards  the  woman  in  rags,  who  was  making 
ineffectual  efforts  to  hold  back  the  sheep  attached  to  the 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  205 

long  cords  of  twisted  osier.  Hippolyte  seized  the  bunch  of 
cords,  and  braced  her  feet  against  a  stone  in  order  to  have 
more  resisting  power.  She  panted,  her  face  purple ;  and 
in  this  violent  attitude  she  was  very  beautiful.  Her  beauty 
lighted  up,  unexpectedly,  like  a  torch. 

"  Come,  George,  come  you  too  !  "  she  cried  to  George, 
communicating  to  him  her  frank  and  childish  joy. 

The  sheep  stopped  in  a  clump  of  furze.  There  were  six 
of  them,  three  black  and  three  white,  and  bore  the  osier 
cords  around  their  woolly  necks.  The  woman  who  looked 
after  them,  emaciated,  poorly  covered  by  her  bluish  rags, 
gesticulated  while  giving  vent,  from  her  toothless  mouth, 
to  an  incomprehensible  grumbling.  Her  little  greenish 
eyes,  without  eyelashes,  bleary,  tearful  and  congested,  had 
a  malignant  look. 

When  Hippolyte  gave  her  alms,  she  kissed  the  pieces  of 
money.  Then,  letting  go  the  cords,  she  removed  from  her 
head  a  rag  which  no  longer  had  either  form  or  color, 
stooped  to  the  ground,  and  slowly,  with  greatest  care,  tied 
up  the  pieces  of  money  in  a  multiplicity  of  knots. 

"  I  am  tired,"  said  Hippolyte.  "  Let  us  sit  down  here 
for  a  moment." 

They  sat  down.  George  then  perceived  that  the  spot  was 
near  the  great  furze  field  where,  on  that  May  morning,  the 
five  virgins  had  plucked  the  flowers  to  strew  the  path  of  the 
beautiful  Roman.  That  morning  already  seemed  very  far 
off,  lost  in  dreamy  haze.  He  said : 

"  Do  you  see,  over  yonder,  those  bushes  which  are  now 
almost  flowerless  ?  Well,  it  was  there  that  we  filled  the 
baskets  to  strew  flowers  on  your  path  when  you  arrived. 
.  .  Oh,  what  a  day  !  Do  you  remember?  " 

She  smiled,  and  in  a  transport  of  sudden  tenderness  took 
one  of  his  hands,  which  she  kept  pressed  in  her  own ;  and 


206  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

she  leaned  her  cheek  on  the  shoulder  of  the  loved  one,  bury- 
ing herself  in  the  sweetness  of  that  memory,  of  that  soli- 
tude, of  that  peace,  of  that  poesy. 

From  time  to  time  a  breath  of  wind  passed  through  the 
tops  of  the  oaks ;  and  below,  farther  on,  in  the  gray  of  the 
olive-trees,  passed,  from  time  to  time,  a  clear  wave  of 
silver.  The  Mute  moved  away  slowly  behind  the  feeding 
sheep ;  and  she  seemed  to  leave  something  fantastic  in  her 
traces,  as  if  a  reflect  of  the  legends  in  which  malignant 
fairies  transform  themselves  into  toads  at  every  turn  of 
the  path. 

"  Aren't  you  happy  now  ?  "  murmured  Hippolyte. 

George  thought:  "It  is  already  two  weeks,  and  there 
has  been  no  change  in  me.  Still  the  same  anxiety,  the 
same  inquietude,  the  same  discontent !  We  are  hardly  at 
the  beginning,  and  I  already  foresee  the  end.  What  shall 
we  do  to  enjoy  the  passing  hour  ?  "  Certain  phrases  of  a 
letter  from  Hippolyte  recurred  to  him :  "  Oh !  when  will 
it  be  given  me  to  be  near  you  during  entire  days,  to  live 
your  life  ?  You  will  see,  I  shall  no  longer  be  the  same 
woman.  I  will  be  your  mistress,  your  friend,  your  sister; 
and  if  you  think  me  worthy,  I  will  be  also  your  adviser. 
.  .  .  In  me  you  should  find  nothing  but  sweetness  and 
repose.  ...  It  will  be  a  life  of  love  such  as  has 
never  before  been  seen."  .  .  . 

He  thought :  "  For  the  past  two  weeks  our  whole  exist- 
ence has  been  composed  of  petty,  material  incidents,  like 
those  of  to-day.  It  is  true ;  I  have  already  seen  in  her 
another  woman  /  She  is  commencing  to  change,  even  in 
appearance.  It  is  unbelievable  how  rapidly  she  is  gaining 
in  health.  One  would  say  that  every  breath  is  a  gain; 
that,  for  her,  every  fruit  turns  into  blood ;  that  the  health- 
fulness  of  the  air  penetrates  her  every  pore.  She  was  made 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  207 

for  this  life  of  idleness,  of  liberty,  of  physical  enjoyment, 
of  carelessness.  Up  to  now,  she  has  not  uttered  a  single 
thoughtful  word  which  revealed  preoccupation  of  the  soul. 
Her  intervals  of  silence  and  immobility  are  caused  only 
by  muscular  fatigue,  just  as  at  the  present  moment." 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  she  demanded. 

"  Of  nothing.     I  am  happy." 

After  a  pause,  she  added  : 

"  We'll  go  on  now,  shall  we  ?  " 

They  rose.  She  bestowed  upon  his  mouth  a  sonorous  kiss. 
She  was  gay  and  restless.  Every  few  minutes  she  darted 
away  from  him  to  run  down  an  incline  free  from  rocks ; 
and  when  she  wished  to  check  her  speed,  she  grasped  the 
trunk  of  a  young  oak,  which  groaned  and  bent  beneath  the 
shock. 

She  gathered  a  violet  flower  and  sucked  it. 

"  It's  honey." 

She  gathered  another,  and  placed  it  on  her  lover's 
lips. 

"Taste  it!" 

And  it  seemed  as  if  she  enjoyed  the  savor  for  the  second 
time,  at  seeing  the  motions  of  his  mouth. 

"  With  all  these  flowers,  and  all  these  bees,  there  must 
certainly  be  a  hive  near  by,"  she  went  on.  "One  of 
these  mornings,  while  you  are  asleep,  I  must  come  here  and 
search  for  it.  .  .  .  I'll  bring  you  a  honeycomb." 

She  prattled  at  a  great  rate  about  this  adventure,  which 
tickled  her  fancy;  and  in  her  words  appeared,  with  the 
vivacity  of  an  actual  sensation,  the  freshness  of  the  morning, 
the  mystery  of  the  woods,  the  impatience  of  the  search,  the 
joy  of  the  discovery,  the  pale  color  and  wild  fragrance  of 
honey. 

They  halted  half-way  up  the  hill,  at  the  border  of  the 


208  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

woody  region,  charmed  by  the  melancholy  which  ascended 
from  the  sea. 

The  sea  was  delicately  colored,  between  a  blue  and 
a  green,  in  which  the  green  had  a  progressive  tendency  to 
dominate ;  but  the  sky,  of  a  leaden  azure  at  the  zenith,  and 
streaked  here  and  there  by  clouds,  was  rose-colored  in  the 
curve  toward  Ortono.  This  light  was  reflected  in  pale  tints 
on  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  recalled  deflowered  roses 
floating.  Against  the  maritime  background  were  arranged 
in  steps,  in  harmonious  degrees,  first  the  two  large  oaks  with 
their  dark  foliage,  then  the  silvery  olive-trees,  then  the  fig- 
trees  with  their  bright  foliage  and  violet  branches.  The 
moon,  orange-colored,  enormous,  almost  at  its  full,  rose 
up  above  the  ring  of  the  horizon,  like  a  globe  of  crystal 
through  whose  transparency  could  be  seen  a  chimerical 
country  figured  in  bas-relief  on  a  massive  disk  of  gold. 

One  heard  the  warbling  of  birds,  near  and  far.  One 
heard  the  lowing  of  an  ox ;  then  a  bleating ;  then  the  wail- 
ing of  a  child.  There  was  a  pause  during  which  all  these 
voices  were  silent,  and  only  this  single  wail  was  heard. 

It  was  a  wail,  not  violent  or  interrupted,  but  shrill,  con- 
tinuous, almost  feeble.  And  it  attracted  the  soul,  detached 
it  from  all  the  rest,  snatched  it  from  the  seduction  of  the 
twilight,  to  oppress  it  with  a  veritable  anguish  which  re- 
sponded to  the  suffering  of  the  unknown  creature,  of  the 
little,  invisible  being. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  said  Hippolyte,  whose  voice,  already 
changed  by  compassion,  became  involuntarily  lower.  "  I 
know  who  the  child  is  that's  crying." 

"You  know?"  asked  George,  to  whom  his  mistress's 
voice  and  appearance  had  given  a  strange  shock. 

"Yes." 

She  was  again  listening  intently  to  the  lamentable  moan- 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  209 

ing,  which  now  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  place.  She  added  : 
"  It's  the  infant  that  the  Ghouls  are  sucking." 

She  had  pronounced  these  words  without  the  shadow  of 
a  smile,  as  if  she  herself  were  beneath  the  empire  of  the 
superstition. 

"  It  lives  over  there,  in  that  tumble-down  cottage. 
Candia  told  me." 

After  a  slight  hesitation,  during  which  they  listened  to 
the  wails  and  had  a  fantastic  vision  of  the  dying  child, 
Hippolyte  suggested : 

"  Shall  we  go  and  see  it  ?     It's  not  far." 

George  was  perplexed,  dreading  the  sadness  of  the  spec- 
tacle, and  the  contact  of  the  distressed  and  coarse  people. 

"Shall  we?"  repeated  Hippolyte,  whose  curiosity 
became  irresistible.  "It  is  over  there,  in  that  old  cot- 
tage, beneath  the  pine.  I  know  the  way." 

"Let's  go!" 

She  went  straight  ahead,  hastening  her  steps,  across  a 
sloping  field.  Both  were  silent;  both  heard  only  the 
infantile  wail  which  served  them  as  a  guide.  And,  step  by 
step,  their  anguish  became  more  poignant  and  in  propor- 
tion as  the  wailing  became  more  distinct  and  indicated 
better  the  poor,  bloodless  body  from  which  pain  forced  it. 

They  traversed  a  copse  of  odorous  orange-trees,  treading 
on  the  flowers  scattered  on  the  ground.  On  the  threshold 
of  a  cottage  close  to  the  one  they  sought  an  enormously 
stout  woman  was  seated ;  and  on  her  monstrous  body  was  a 
small  round  head,  with  soft  eyes,  white  teeth,  a  placid 
smile. 

"Where  are  you  going,  signora?"  asked  the  woman, 
without  rising. 

"  We  are  going  to  see  the  child  whom  the  Ghouls  are 
sucking. ' ' 

14 


2IO  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  What's  the  use  ?  You'd  better  stay  here,  and  take  a 
rest.  I  do  not  lack  children,  either.  Look  !  " 

Three  or  four  naked  children,  who  had  also  such  large 
stomachs  that  one  would  have  believed  them  to  be  dropsi- 
cal, dragged  themselves  along  on  the  ground,  grunting  and 
tumbling  over,  putting  in  their  mouths  everything  that  fell 
into  their  hands.  And  the  woman  held  in  her  arms  a  fifth 
child,  all  covered  with  brownish  scabs,  from  the  midst  of 
which  shone  out  a  pair  of  large  clear  blue  eyes,  like 
miraculous  flowers. 

"  You  see  that  I  have  plenty  of  them  too,  and  that  this 
one,  here,  is  sick.  Stay  here  a  bit." 

She  smiled,  soliciting  with  her  eyes  the  strangers'  gener- 
osity. And,  with  an  expression  in  which  one  guessed  the 
desire  to  dissuade  the  curiosity  of  the  woman  by  the  vague 
presentiment  of  a  peril : 

"What's  the  good  of  going  there?"  she  repeated. 
"  See  how  ill  this  one  is." 

And  again  she  showed  the  afflicted  child,  but  without 
simulating  any  sorrow,  as  if  she  simply  offered  to  the  passer- 
by a  nearer  object  of  compassion  in  exchange  for  a  more 
distant  one — as  if  she  wished  to  say  :  "  Since  you  desire  to 
be  compassionate,  have  compassion  for  the  one  before  you." 

George  examined,  with  deep  pain,  the  poor,  spotted  face, 
whose  large,  bright,  and  clear  eyes  seemed  to  drink  in  all 
the  light  shed  on  this  June  evening. 

"  What  is  he  suffering  from  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Ah!  signer,  who  ever  knows?"  answered  the  fat 
woman,  always  with  the  same  placidity.  "  He  has  what 
God  wishes." 

Hippolyte  gave  her  some  money;  and  they  resumed  their 
way  towards  the  other  cottage,  bearing  with  them  the  nause- 
ous odor  emanating  from  that  door  full  of  shadow. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  211 

They  did  not  speak.  They  felt  a  contraction  of  their 
hearts,  a  disgust  in  their  mouths,  a  weakness  in  their  limbs. 
They  heard  the  shrill  wailing,  mingled  with  other  voices, 
other  sounds ;  and  they  were  stupefied  at  having  been  able 
to  hear  this  single  sound  so  far  away,  and  so  distinctly. 
But  what  attracted  their  eyes  was  the  tall  and  straight  pine 
whose  robust  trunk  stood  out  black  against  the  diffused  light 
of  the  twilight,  sustaining  a  melodious  summit  filled  with 
sparrows. 

At  their  approach,  a  whisper  passed  among  the  women 
gathered  around  the  victim. 

"  Here  are  the  gentlefolk — Candia's  strangers." 

"  Come,  come  !  " 

And  the  women  opened  their  circle  to  permit  the 
arrivals  to  draw  nearer.  One  of  them,  an  old  woman,  with 
wrinkled  skin,  of  the  color  of  parched  earth,  expression- 
less eyes,  whitish  and  as  if  vitrified  in  the  depths  of  their 
hollow  orbits,  said,  addressing  Hippolyte,  and  touching  her 
arm ; 

"  Look,  signora  !  Look  !  The  Ghouls  are  sucking  it, 
poor  creature  !  Look  at  the  state  they've  reduced  it  to ! 
May  God  protect  your  children  !  " 

Her  voice  was  so  dry  that  it  appeared  artificial,  and 
resembled  the  sounds  articulated  by  an  automaton. 

"  Cross  yourself,  signora  !  "  she  added  again. 

The  advice  seemed  lugubrious  in  that  lifeless  mouth, 
in  which  the  voice  lost  its  human  character  and  became  a 
dead  thing.  Hippolyte  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and 
looked  at  her  companion. 

In  the  space  before  the  door  of  the  hut  the  women  were 
in  a  circle  as  around  a  spectacle,  making  from  time  to  time 
some  mechanical  sign  of  condolence.  And  the  circle  was 
unceasingly  renewed ;  some,  already  tired  of  looking,  went 


212  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

away ;  others  arrived  from  neighboring  houses.  And  almost 
all,  at  the  sight  of  this  slow  death,  repeated  the  same 
gesture,  repeated  the  same  words. 

The  child  reposed  in  a  little  cradle,  of  rough  pine  boards, 
like  a  small,  lidless  coffin.  The  poor  creature,  naked, 
sickly,  emaciated,  greenish,  was  wailing  continuously  and 
waving  its  debilitated  arms  and  legs,  which  had  nothing 
more  than  skin  and  bone,  as  if  asking  for  help.  And  the 
mother,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  cradle,  bent  in  two,  her 
head  so  low  that  it  almost  touched  her  knees,  seemed  to 
hear  nothing.  It  seemed  as  if  some  terrible  weight  rested 
on  her  neck  and  prevented  her  from  rising.  At  times, 
mechanically,  she  placed  on  the  edge  of  the  cradle  a  coarse, 
callous  hand,  burnt  by  the  sun;  and  she  made  the  gesture 
of  rocking  without  altering  her  attitude  or  breaking  the 
silence.  Then  the  holy  images,  the  talismans,  and  the 
relics,  with  which  the  pine  cradle  was  almost  entirely  cov- 
ered, undulated  and  tinkled,  during  a  momentary  pause  in 
the  wail. 

"Liberata!  Liberata ! "  cried  one  of  the  women, 
shaking  her.  "  Look,  Liberata  !  The  lady  has  come — the 
lady  is  in  your  house  !  Look  !  " 

The  mother  slowly  raised  her  head  and  looked  around  her, 
with  a  bewildered  air ;  then  she  fixed  on  her  visitor  her  dry 
and  mournful  eyes,  in  whose  depths  there  was  less  of 
fatigued  sorrow  than  inert  and  shadowy  terror — the  terror 
of  nocturnal  witchcraft  against  which  no  exorcism  prevailed, 
the  terror  of  those  insatiable  beings  who  now  had  the  house 
in  their  power,  and  who  would  not  abandon  it  perhaps  but 
with  the  last  corpse. 

"  Speak  !  Speak  !  "  insisted  one  of  the  women,  shaking 
her  again  by  the  arm.  "  Speak  !  Ask  the  lady  to  send 
you  to  the  Madonna  of  the  Miracles." 


THE  NEW  LIFE.  213 

The  others  surrounded  Hippolyte  with  supplications. 

"  Yes,  signora.  Be  charitable  to  her  !  Send  her  to  the 
Madonna.  Send  her  to  the  Madonna  ! ' ' 

The  child  cried  louder.  In  the  tops  of  the  pine-tree 
the  sparrows  were  emitting  heart-rending  cries.  In  the 
neighborhood,  between  the  deformed  trunks  of  the  olive- 
trees,  a  dog  barked.  The  moon  was  beginning  to  cast  its 
shadows.  "  Yes,"  stammered  Hippolyte,  incapable  of  sus- 
taining longer  the  fixed  gaze  of  the  silent  mother.  "  Yes, 
yes,  we  will  send  her — to-morrow." 

"  No,  not  to-morrow;  Saturday,  signora." 

"  Saturday  is  the  Vigil." 

"  Let  her  buy  him  a  candle." 

"A  fine  candle." 

"  A  ten-pound  candle." 

"  Do  you  hear,  Liberata  ?     Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  The  lady  will  send  you  to  the  Madonna  !  " 

"  The  Madonna  will  pity  you." 

"Speak!     Speak!" 

"  She's  become  dumb,  signora." 

"  She  hasn't  spoken  for  three  days." 

In  the  midst  of  the  confused  cries  of  the  women,  the 
child  cried  still  louder. 

"  Do  you  hear  how  he  cries  ?  " 

"  He  always  cries  loudest,  signora,  at  nightfall." 

"  Perhaps  it's  coming  soon." 

"  Perhaps  the  child  has  seen " 

"  Make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  signora." 

"  It's  getting  dark." 

"  Do  you  hear  how  he  cries  ?  " 

"  Isn't  that  the  bell  tolling  ?  " 

"  No;  one  can't  hear  it  here." 

"  Silence  !  " 


St4  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  One  can't  hear  it  here." 

"  But  I  hear  it." 

"  I  hear  it,  too." 

"  Ave  Maria!" 

All  were  silent,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  bowed. 
It  seemed  as  if  several  sonorous  waves,  scarcely  perceptible, 
arrived  from  the  distant  market-town;  but  the  child's  wail 
filled  every  listener's  ear.  Once  more,  only  this  single  wail 
could  be  heard.  The  mother  had  fallen  on  her  knees  at 
the  foot  of  the  cradle,  prostrated  to  the  earth.  Hippolyte, 
her  head  bowed,  was  praying  with  fervor. 

"  Look,  there,  in  the  doorway !  "  whispered  one  of  the 
women  to  her  neighbor. 

George,  watchful  and  uneasy,  turned  his  head.  The 
doorway  was  full  of  shadow. 

"  Look,  there,  in  the  doorway  !  Don't  you  see  some- 
thing ?" 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  replied  the  other,  uncertain,  a  little 
frightened. 

"  What  is  it  ?    What  do  you  see  ?  "  asked  a  third. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  demanded  a  fourth. 

"What  is  it?" 

Suddenly  curiosity  and  fright  seized  them  all.  They 
looked  toward  the  door.  The  child  cried.  The  mother 
rose,  and  she,  too,  began  to  fix  her  dilated  eyes  on  the 
door  which  the  shadows  rendered  mysterious.  The  dog 
barked  among  the  olive-trees. 

"What  is  it  ?"  said  George,  in  a  low  voice,  but  not 
without  requiring  some  effort  to  shake  off  the  increasing 
uneasiness  of  his  imagination.  "  What  do  you  see  ?  " 

None  of  the  women  dared  to  answer.  All,  in  the 
shadow,  saw  the  outlines  of  a  vague  form. 

Then  he  advanced  toward  the  door.     When  he  crossed 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  215 

the  threshold,  a  furnace-like. heat  and  a  repugnant  stench 
cut  short  his  breath.  He  turned  round,  went  out. 

"  It's  a  scythe,"  he  said. 

In  fact,  it  was  a  scythe  hanging  on  the  wall. 

"Ah!  a  scythe." 

And  the  voices  recommenced. 

"Liberata!     Liberata!" 

"Are  you  mad  ?" 

"She  is  mad." 

"  It's  getting  dark.     Let  us  go." 

"  He's  not  crying  any  more." 

"  Poor  creature  !     Is  he  asleep  ?  " 

"  He  has  stopped  crying." 

"Take  in  the  cradle;  the  evening  is  damp.  We  will 
help  you,  Liberata." 

"  Poor  creature  !     Is  he  asleep  ?  " 

"  One  would  think  he  were  dead.     He  no  longer  moves." 

"  Take  in  the  cradle,  won't  you?  Don't  you  hear  us, 
Liberata?" 

"She  is  mad." 

"  Where  is  the  lamp  ?  Joseph  will  soon  return.  Have 
you  no  lamp  ?  Joseph  will  soon  return  from  the  lime- 
kiln." 

"  She  is  mad.     She  doesn't  speak  any  more." 

"  We  are  going.     God  be  with  you  !  " 

"  Poor  tormented  flesh  !     Is  he  sleeping  ?  " 

"  He's  sleeping,  he's  sleeping.  .  .  .  He's  not  in 
pain  now." 

"  Oh,  Lord  Jesus,  save  him  !  " 

"Protect  us,  O  Lord  !  " 

"  Farewell,  farewell  !     Good  night !  " 

"Good  night!" 

*'  Good  night  1 " 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE  dog  continued  to  bark  in  the  olive-groves,  while 
George  and  Hippolyte  came  back  by  the  path  towards 
Candia's  house.  When  the  animal  recognized  the  guests 
of  the  house,  he  stopped  barking,  and  came  to  meet  them 
joyfully. 

"Why,  it's  Giardino!"  cried  Hippolyte.  And  she 
stooped  to  caress  the  poor  beast,  with  whom  she  had 
already  become  friends.  "  He  was  calling  us.  It's  getting 
late." 

The  moon  rose  in  the  silence  of  the  sky,  slowly,  pre- 
ceded by  a  luminous  wave  which  gradually  covered  the 
azure.  All  the  sounds  of  the  surrounding  fields  died  away 
beneath  this  pacific  light.  And  the  unexpected  cessation 
of  every  noise  seemed  almost  supernatural  to  George,  whom 
an  inexplicable  fright  kept  alert. 

"  Stop  a  moment,"  he  said,  holding  Hippolyte  back. 

And  he  listened  intently. 

"  What  are  you  listening  to  ?  " 

"  It  seemed  to  me " 

And  both  looked  back  in  the  direction  of  the  barn, 
which  the  olive-trees  concealed  from  view.  But  they  heard 
nothing  except  the  even  and  rocking  rhythm  of  the  sea  in 
the  curve  of  the  little  gulf.  Over  their  heads  a  cricket 
clove  the  air  in  its  flight  with  a  grating  sound  like  that  of  a 
diamond  on  a  pane  of  glass. 

"Don't  you  think  the  child  is  dead  ?"  asked  George, 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  217 

without   dissimulating   his  emotion.       **  He  stopped  cry- 
ing." 

"That's  true!"  said  Hippolyte.  "And  you  believe 
he's  dead?" 

George  did  not  reply.  And  they  resumed  their  way  back 
beneath  the  silvery  olive-groves. 

"  Did  you  notice  the  mother  well  ?  "  he  asked  at  last, 
after  a  silence,  possessed  internally  by  the  sombre  image. 

"My  God!     My  God  !" 

"  And  that  old  woman  who  touched  your  elbow  !  What 
a  voice  !  What  eyes  !" 

His  words  betrayed  the  strange  fright  which  dominated 
him,  as  if  the  recent  spectacle  had  been  a  frightful  revela- 
tion to  him,  as  if  life  had  suddenly  been  made  manifest  to 
him  under  a  mysterious  and  savage  aspect,  bruising  and 
stamping  him  with  an  indelible  sign. 

"  You  know,  when  I  entered  the  house,  on  the  ground 
behind  the  door  there  was  the  corpse  of  some  beast — 
already  half-decomposed.  The  smell  was  simply  chok- 
ing." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  It  was  either  a  cat  or  a  dog.  I  could  not  distinguish 
very  well.  It  was  difficult  to  see  well  inside." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  Without  any  doubt  there  was  a  dead  animal. 
The  stench *" 

A  shudder  of  disgust  ran  through  him  as  he  thought  of  it. 

"  What  could  it  be?  "  said  Hippolyte,  who  felt  herself 
becoming  infected  by  the  contagion  of  fear  and  disgust. 
.  "  How  can  I  know  ?  " 

The  dog  gave  a  bark  to  announce  their  coming.  They 
had  arrived.  Candia  was  waiting  for  them,  and  the  table 
was  already  spread  beneath  the  oak. 


2l8  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  How  late  you  are,  signora  !  "  cried  the  affable  hostess, 
with  a  smile.  "  Where  have  you  been  ?  What  will  you 
give  me  if  I  guess  ?  Well,  you  have  been  to  see  the  child 
of  Liberata  Maunella.  May  Jesus  guard  us  from  the 
Cunning  One  ! ' ' 

When  the  lovers  were  at  table,  she  approached,  curious, 
to  speak  and  question. 

"  Did  you  see  him,  signora  ?  He  gets  no  better;  he's 
just  as  bad.  Yet  his  father  and  mother  have  done  every- 
thing to  save  him." 

What  had  they  not  done  !  Candia  related  all  the  remedies 
attempted,  all  the  exorcisms.  The  priest  had  been  there, 
and,  after  having  covered  the  child's  head  with  the  edge 
of  his  stole,  had  read  verses  from  the  Bible.  The  mother 
had  suspended  from  the  lintel  of  the  door  a  waxen  cross, 
blessed  on  Ascension  Day;  she  had  sprinkled  with  holy 
water  the  hinges  of  the  imposts,  and  recited  aloud  the  Credo, 
thrice  in  succession ;  she  had  put  a  handful  of  salt  in  a 
piece  of  linen,  which  afterwards  she  had  knotted  and  hung 
around  the  neck  of  her  dying  son.  The  father  had  done  the 
seven  nights  ;  for  seven  consecutive  nights  he  had  watched  in 
the  dark,  before  a  lighted  lantern  covered  with  a  pot,  atten- 
tive to  the  slightest  sound,  ready  to  assail  and  seize  the 
Ghoul.  A  single  pin-prick  would  have  sufficed  to  render 
it  visible  to  human  eyes.  But  the  seven  vigils  had  gone  by 
without  result.  The  child  wasted  away,  and  was  consumed 
hour  by  hour,  hopelessly.  Finally,  on  the  advice  of  a 
witch,  the  despairing  father  had  killed  a  dog  and  put  the 
body  behind  the  door.  This  prevented  the  Ghoul  entering 
before  having  counted  all  the  hairs  of  the  dead  beast. 

' '  Do  you  hear  ? ' '  said  George  to  Hippolyte. 

They  did  not  eat,  their  hearts  oppressed  with  pity,  struck 
with  terror  at  the  sudden  apparition  of  these  phantoms  of 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  2 19 

an  obscure  and  atrocious  life,  which  environed  the  leisures 
of  their  useless  love. 

"  May  Jesus  protect  us  from  the  Cunning  One  !  "  repeated 
Candia ;  and  piously,  with  her  open  hand,  she  indicated 
the  place  where  lay  the  living  fruit.  "  May  God  protect 
your  children,  signora  !  " 

Then  she  added : 

"  You're  not  eating  this  evening  !  You've  no  appetite. 
That  innocent  soul  distresses  your  hearts.  And  your  hus- 
band isn't  eating,  either.  Look  !  " 

Hippolyte  said : 

"  Do  many  die— like  that  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  went  on  Candia,  "  this  is  a  bad  district.  The 
cursed  brood  swarms  hereabouts.  One  is  never  safe.  May 
Jesus  protect  us  from  the  Cunning  One  !  " 

She  repeated  the  conjuration,  then  added,  pointing  to  a 
plate  on  the  table  : 

"  Do  you  see  those  fish  ?  They  are  from  the  Trabocco ; 
they  were  brought  by  Turchin." 

And  she  lowered  her  voice. 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  ?  For  nearly  a  year,  Turchin 
and  all  his  family  have  been  in  the  power  of  some  witch- 
craft from  which  he  has  not  yet  been  able  to  free  him- 
self." 

"Who  is  Turchin?"  asked  George,  listening  breath- 
lessly to  the  woman's  words,  fascinated  by  the  mystery  of 
these  things.  "  The  man  from  the  Trabocco  ?  " 

And  he  recalled  that  earthy  visage,  almost  chinless, 
scarcely  larger  than  a  fist,  with  a  long  nose,  prominent 
and  pointed  like  the  snout  of  a  pike,  between  two  small, 
glittering  eyes. 

"  Yes,  signer.  Look  over  there.  If  your  sight  is  good 
you  can  see  him.  To-night  he  is  fishing  by  moonlight." 


220  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

And  Candia  pointed  out  on  the  rocks  the  great  fishing 
machine — that  collection  of  trunks  freed  from  their  bark, 
planks  and  cables,  whose  strange  whiteness  resembled  the 
colossal  skeleton  of  some  antediluvian  amphibian.  In 
the  calm  air  was  heard  the  creaking  of  the  capstan.  As  the 
tide  was  low  and  the  rocks  were  uncovered,  the  odor  of  the 
algae  came  up  victorious  from  the  beach,  stronger  and 
fresher  than  the  effluvia  from  the  fertile  hill. 

Hippolyte  breathed  in  the  intoxicating  odor,  already 
entirely  occupied  by  that  intense  sensation  which  made  her 
nostrils  quiver  and  her  eyes  half-close.  She  murmured  : 

"  Oh,  how  delicious  !     Don't  you  smell  it,  George  ?  " 

He,  on  his  part,  was  very  attentive  to  Candia's  words, 
and  saw  in  imagination  the  silent  drama  suspended  over 
the  sea.  To  the  phantoms  evoked  by  this  simple  woman 
in  the  serene  night  his  soul,  inclined  to  mystery  and  natu- 
rally superstitious,  gave  limitless  life  and  tragic  horror. 
For  the  first  time  he  had  a  vast  and  confused  vision  of  that 
race  unknown  to  him,  of  all  that  miserable  flesh,  full  of 
animal  instincts  and  of  bestial  afflictions,  bent  and  sweat- 
ing on  the  glebe  or  buried  in  the  depths  of  the  cottages, 
beneath  the  perpetual  menace  of  those  dark  powers. 
Amidst  the  sweet  richness  of  the  country  which  he  had 
selected  as  the  theatre  of  his  love,  he  discovered  a  violent 
human  agitation;  and  it  was  as  if  he  had  discovered  a 
swarm  of  insects  in  the  masses  of  magnificent  hair  impreg- 
nated with  aroma.  He  felt  the  same  shudder,  already  felt 
before  this,  at  the  contact  with  brutally  revealed  life : 
"  recently,  at  the  sight  of  his  relatives,  of  his  father,  of  his 
brother,  of  the  poor,  bigoted  glutton."  All  at  once,  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  no  longer  alone  with  his  mistress  amidst 
the  benign  growths,  under  the  bark  of  which  he  had  one 
day  believed  he  had  surprised  a  new  emotion.  He  felt 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  221 

himself,  on  the  contrary,  environed  and  almost  jostled  by 
an  unknown  crowd,  which,  bearing  in  itself  the  same  vitality 
which  the  trunks  of  trees  possess,  blind,  tenacious,  and 
unconquerable,  adhered  to  him  by  the  bond  of  the  species 
and  could  immediately  communicate  to  him  its  suffering, 
by  a  look,  a  gesture,  a  sigh,  a  sob,  a  groan,  a  cry. 

"Ah!  this  district  is  bad,"  repeated  Candia,  shaking 
her  head.  "  But  the  Messiah  of  Chapelles  will  come  to 
purify  the  earth."  * 

"  The  Messiah  ?" 

"  Father,"  cried  Candia,  in  the  direction  of  the  house, 
"  when  is  the  Messiah  to  be  here  ?  " 

The  old  man  appeared  upon  the  threshold. 

"  One  of  these  days,"  he  replied. 

And,  turning  toward  the  beach,  which  in  the  dim  light 
cast  by  the  half-moon  disappeared  to  view  in  the  direction 
of  Ortona,  he  signified  with  a  vague  gesture  the  mystery  of 
that  new  deliverer  in  whom  the  country  people  had  placed 
their  hope  and  faith. 

"  One  of  these  days — very  soon." 

And  the  old  man,  who  wanted  to  talk,  approached  the 
table,  looked  at  his  guests  with  an  uncertain  smile,  and 
asked : 

"  Don't  you  know  who  it  is  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  Semplice,"  said  George,  in  whose 
memory  revived  a  distant  and  indistinct  recollection  of 
that  Semplice  di  Sulmone  who  fell  into  an  ecstasy,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  sun. 

*  The  episode  of  the  Messiah  of  Chapelles  is  historical.  Oreste 
de  Amicis,  born  in  1824  at  Chapelles,  played  precisely  the  role  as- 
Signed  to  him  here  by  the  novelist.  He  died  in  1889.  Antonio  di 
Nino  has  collected  and  published  curious  documents  concerning  this 
personage. 


332  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"No,  signer;  Sembri  is  dead.  The  new  Messiah  is 
Oreste  of  Chapelles." 

And  the  old  man,  in  fervent  and  vividly  colored  language, 
related  the  new  legend,  such  as  it  had  been  conceived  by 
the  rural  population. 

Oreste,  being  a  capuchin  monk,  had  known  Semplice  at 
Sulmone,  and  had  learned  from  him  the  art  of  reading  the 
future  on  the  face  of  the  rising  sun.  Then  he  began  to 
travel  all  over  the  world :  he  had  gone  to  Rome,  and  had 
spoken  with  the  Pope ;  in  another  place  he  had  spoken 
with  the  king.  On  his  return  to  Chapelles,  his  birthplace, 
he  had  passed  seven  years  in  the  cemetery  in  the  company 
of  skeletons,  wearing  a  hair  shirt,  flagellating  himself  night 
and  day,  according  to  discipline.  He  had  preached  in  the 
parish  church,  and  had  drawn  tears  and  cries  from  the 
fishers.  Then  he  had  started  once  more  on  a  pilgrimage 
to  all  the  sanctuaries ;  he  had  remained  thirty  days  on  the 
mountain  of  Ancona;  he  had  remained  twelve  days  on 
Mount  St.  Bernard;  he  had  climbed  the  highest  peaks, 
struggling  through  the  snow,  his  head  bared.  Returned 
again  to  Chapelles,  he  had  recommenced  to  preach  in  his 
church.  But,  shortly  afterwards,  persecuted  and  driven 
away  by  his  enemies,  he  had  sought  refuge  in  the  Island  of 
Corsica;  and  there  he  had  made  himself  an  apostle, 
resolved  to  traverse  all  Italy  and  to  write  the  name  of  the 
Virgin  in  his  blood  on  the  gate  of  every  city.  As  an  apos- 
tle, he  had  returned  to  his  native  place,  announcing  that  he 
had  seen  a  star  in  the  midst  of  a  thicket  of  trees,  and  that 
from  it  he  had  received  the  Word.  And,  finally,  by  the 
inspiration  of  the  Eternal  Father,  he  had  taken  the  great 
name  of  the  New  Messiah. 

He  was  now  making  his  pilgrimage  through  the  rural  dis- 
tricts dressed  in  a  red  tunic  and  a  blue  mantle,  with  long  hair 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  22$ 

down  to  his  shoulders,  and  his  beard  trimmed  like  Christ's. 
His  apostles  accompanied  him — men  who  had  abandoned  the 
spade  and  plough  to  devote  themselves  to  the  triumph  of  the 
new  faith.  In  Pantaleoni  Donadio  revived  the  spirit  of  Saint 
Matthew;  in  Antonio  Secamiglio  revived  the  spirit  of  Saint 
Peter ;  in  Giuseppe  Scurti,  that  of  Maximin ;  in  Maria  Clara, 
that  of  Saint  Elizabeth ;  and  Vincent  di  Giambattista,  who 
represented  the  archangel  Saint  Michael,  was  the  messen- 
ger of  the  Messiah. 

All  these  men  had  tilled  the  soil,  mown  the  wheat,  pruned 
the  vines,  pressed  the  olives ;  they  had  led  the  cattle  to  the 
fair  and  disputed  over  the  prices ;  they  had  led  a  woman  to 
the  altar,  and  procreated  children,  and  seen  these  children 
grow,  flourish,  die ;  in  short,  they  had  lived  the  ordinary 
life  of  country  people  amidst  their  equals.  And  now 
they  passed,  followers  of  the  Messiah,  considered  as  divine 
personages  by  the  same  people  with  whom,  the  previous 
week,  they  had  argued  concerning  a  measure  of  wheat.  They 
passed  transfigured,  participating  in  the  divinity  of  Oreste, 
invested  with  his  grace.  Whether  in  the  fields  or  in  the 
house,  they  had  heard  a  voice,  they  had  all  at  once  felt 
pure  souls  enter  into  their  sinful  flesh.  The  spirit  of  Saint 
John  was  in  Giuseppe  Coppa;  that  of  Saint  Zacharias,  in 
Pascal  Basilico.  The  women,  also,  had  received  the  sign. 
A  woman  of  Senegallia,  married  to  a  certain  Augustinone, 
a  tailor  at  Chapelles,  in  order  to  demonstrate  to  the  Mes- 
siah the  ardor  of  her  faith,  had  wanted  to  renew  the  sacri- 
fice of  Abraham,  by  setting  fire  to  a  mattress  on  which  slept 
her  children.  Other  women  had  given  other  proofs. 

And  the  Elect  now  wandered  through  the  country  with 
his  escort  of  Apostles  and  of  Marys.  From  the  most  distant 
places  of  the  coast  and  mountain,  multitudes  flocked  to 
see  him  pass.  At  daybreak,  when  he  appeared  at  the  door 


224  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

of  the  house  in  which  he  had  lodged,  he  always  saw  a  great 
crowd  kneeling  in  expectation.  Erect  on  the  threshold,  he 
delivered  the  Word,  received  confessions,  administered 
communion  with  pieces  of  bread.  For  his  nourishment,  he 
preferred  eggs  prepared  with  elder  flowers,  or  with  the  tips 
of  wild  asparagus ;  he  also  ate  a  mixture  of  honey,  nuts,  and 
almonds,  which  he  called  manna,  to  recall  the  manna  of 
the  desert. 

His  miracles  could  no  longer  be  counted.  By  the  sim- 
ple virtue  of  the  thumb,  index  and  middle  fingers,  raised 
in  the  air,  he  delivered  the  possessed,  cured  the  infirm, 
resurrected  the  dead.  If  anyone  went  to  consult  him,  he 
did  not  even  give  him  time  to  open  his  mouth,  and  imme- 
diately told  him  the  names  of  his  parents,  explained  his 
family  affairs,  and  revealed  to  him  the  most  obscure  secrets. 
He  also  gave  news  of  the  souls  of  the  dead ;  he  indicated 
places  where  treasures  were  hidden ;  with  certain  scapularies 
in  the  form  of  a  triangle,  he  delivered  hearts  from  melan- 
cholies. 

"  It's  Jesus  come  back  to  earth,"  concluded  Colas  di 
Sciampagne,  with  a  voice  fervent  with  faith.  "  He  will 
pass  near  here,  too.  Didn't  you  see  how  high  the  wheat  is? 
Have  you  not  noticed  how  the  olive-trees  are  flourishing? 
Didn't  you  notice  how  the  vines  are  laden  with  grapes?  " 

Respectful  of  the  old  man's  beliefs,  George  asked  gravely : 

"  And  where  is  he  now?  " 

"  He  is  at  Piomba,"  replied  the  old  man. 

And  he  pointed  to  the  distant  shores  on  the  other  side  of 
Ortono,  evoking  in  his  guest's  mind  the  vision  of  that  cor- 
ner of  the  province  of  Teramo  bathed  by  the  sea — an  almost 
mystic  vision  of  fertile  lands  watered  by  little,  sinuous 
rivers,  where,  beneath  the  endless  shivering  of  the  poplars, 
a  stream  of  water  ran  over  a  bed  of  polished  sand. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  225 

After  an  interval  of  silence,  Colas  added  : 

"At  Piomba,  one  word  from  him  sufficed  to  stop  the 
train  on  the  railroad  !  My  son  saw  it.  Didn't  Vito  tell  us 
that,  Candia?  " 

Candia  confirmed  the  old  man's  words,  and  gave  the 
details  of  the  wonderful  event.  The  Messiah,  attired  in  his 
red  tunic,  had  advanced  to  meet  the  train,  walking  calmly 
between  the  two  rails. 

While  speaking,  Candia  and  the  old  man  incessantly  di- 
rected their  gaze,  as  well  as  their  gestures,  towards  the  dis- 
tance, as  if  the  sacred  person  of  the  expected  arrival  were 
already  visible  to  them. 

"Listen!"  interrupted  Hippolyte,  pulling  the  arm  of 
George,  who  was  absorbed  in  an  inner  view  more  and  more 
vast  and  distinct.  "  Don't  you  hear  something  ?  " 

She  rose,  crossed  the  court,  went  close  to  the  parapet 
under  the  acacias.  He  followed  her.  They  listened. 

"  It's  a  procession  going  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Madonna 
of  Casalbordino,"  said  Candia. 

In  the  peaceful  moonlight  a  religious  chant  swelled  its 
slow  and  monotonous  rhythm,  with  an  alternation  of  mascu- 
line and  feminine  voices  at  equal  intervals.  One  of  these 
half-choirs  chanted  a  strophe  in  a  low  tone ;  the  other  half- 
choir  chanted  a  refrain  in  a  higher  key,  indefinitely  pro- 
longing the  cadence.  It  was  like  the  approach  of  a  wave 
continuously  rising  and  falling. 

The  procession  approached  with  a  rapidity  which  con- 
trasted with  the  slowness  of  the  rhythm.  Already  the  first 
pilgrims  appeared  at  the  turn  of  the  path,  near  the  bridge  of 
the  Trabocco. 

"Here  they  are,"  exclaimed  Hippolyte,  moved  by  the 
novelty  of  the  scene  and  sounds.     "  Here  they  are.     What 
a  number  of  them  ! ' ' 
15 


226  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

They  advanced  in  a  compact  mass.  And  the  opposition 
of  the  measure  between  their  march  and  their  chant  was  so 
strange  that  it  gave  them  an  almost  fantastic  appearance. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  supernatural  force  impelled  them  on, 
unconscious,  towards  the  goal,  while  the  words  emitted  from 
their  mouths  remained  suspended  in  the  luminous  air  and 
continued  to  vibrate  after  their  passage. 

Viva  Maria  ! 
Viva  Maria  ! 

They  passed  with  a  heavy  trampling,  exhaling  a  sour, 
herdlike  odor,  so  jammed  one  to  the  other  that  nothing 
emerged  from  their  mass  except  the  long  sticks  fashioned 
like  a  cross.  The  men  marched  in  front,  and  the  women, 
more  numerous,  behind,  with  the  glittering  of  golden  orna- 
ments underneath  their  white  bandelets. 

Viva  Maria  ! 
Viva  her  Creator  ! 

Near  by,  at  every  repetition,  their  chant  had  the  vehe- 
mence of  a  cry;  then  it  diminished  in  vigor,  betraying 
fatigue,  surmounted  by  a  continual  and  unanimous  effort, 
the  initiative  of  which,  in  the  two  half-choirs,  almost  always 
started  in  a  single  and  more  powerful  voice.  And  this  voice 
dominated  not  only  the  others  when  it  intoned  the  measure ; 
but  often,  in  the  midst  of  the  musical  wave,  it  was  main- 
tained high  and  recognizable  during  the  entire  duration  of 
the  strophe  or  refrain,  denoting  a  more  imperious  faith,  a 
singular  and  dominating  soul  among  that  indistinct  crowd. 

George  remarked  it,  and,  very  attentive,  followed  it  as  it 
waned  in  the  distance,  as  long  as  his  ear  could  recognize 
it.  And  that  gave  rise  in  him  to  an  extraordinary  senti- 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  227 

ment  of  the  mystic  power  which  lay  at  the  roots  of  the 
great  indigenous  race  from  which  he  himself  had  sprung. 

The  procession  disappeared  in  the  curve  of  the  coast ; 
then  reappeared  on  the  summit  of  the  promontory,  in  the 
light ;  then  disappeared  again.  And  the  chant,  through 
the  distant  night,  became  veiled,  softened ;  became  so  light 
that  the  slow  and  uniform  modulation  of  the  calm  sea  almost 
drowned  it. 

Seated  on  the  parapet,  her  shoulders  leaning  against  the 
trunk  of  an  acacia,  Hippolyte  remained  silent,  motionless, 
not  daring  to  disturb  the  religious  meditations  in  which  her 
lover  seemed  plunged. 

What  could  the  beams  of  the  brightest  sunlight  reveal  to 
George,  that  this  simple  chant  in  the  night  had  not  already 
revealed  to  him?  All  the  scattered  images,  recent  and 
ancient,  those  still  vibrating  with  the  keen  sensation  which 
had  given  birth  to  them  and  those  buried  in  the  deepest 
recesses  of  his  memory,  all  these  were  bound  together 
internally,  and  composed  for  him  an  ideal  spectacle  which 
carried  him  over  the  most  vast  and  most  august  reality. 
His  land  and  his  race  appeared  to  him  transfigured,  uplifted 
from  time,  with  a  legendary  and  formidable  aspect,  weighty 
with  mysterious,  eternal,  and  nameless  things.  A  moun- 
tain, like  unto  an  enormous  primeval  stump,  reared  up  in 
the  centre  in  the  form  of  a  breast,  perpetually  covered  with 
snows ;  and  the  sloping  sides,  the  promontories  devoted  to 
the  olive-trees,  were  bathed  there  by  an  inconstant  and  sad 
sea,  on  which  the  sails  bore  the  colors  of  mourning  and 
flame.  Roads  wide  as  rivers,  green  with  grass,  and  sown  with 
bare  rocks,  with  gigantic  vestiges  scattered  here  and  there, 
descended  from  the  heights  to  conduct  to  the  plains  the 
migrations  of  the  herds.  The  rites  of  dead  and  forgotten 
religions  survived;  incomprehensible  symbols  of  powers 


228  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

fallen  since  centuries  subsisted  there  intact;  the  usages 
of  primitive  peoples,  gone  forever,  persisted  there,  trans- 
mitted without  change  from  generation  to  generation ;  the 
rich  fashions,  strange  and  useless,  were  retained  there  as 
witnesses  of  the  nobility  and  the  beauty  of  an  anterior  life. 
Long  strings  of  horses  laden  with  wheat-corn  passed  there; 
and  the  devotees  rode  on  the  loads,  their  heads  crowned 
with  ears  of  corn,  with  belts  of  paste,  and  deposited  at  the 
foot  of  a  statue  the  cereal  offerings.  The  young  girls,  with 
baskets  of  wheat  on  their  heads,  led  along  the  roads  a  she- 
ass  bearing  a  still  larger  basket  on  its  crupper,  and,  with  their 
offering,  they  went  towards  the  altar,  singing.  The  men 
and  boys,  crowned  with  roses  and  with  dewy  berries,  climbed 
in  their  pilgrimage  on  a  rock  on  which  was  impressed  a  foot- 
print of  Sampson.  A  white  bullock,  fattened  for  a  year  on 
a  rich  pasturage,  covered  by  a  vermilion  gualdrape  and 
ridden  by  a  child,  advanced  with  pomp  among  the  standards 
and  candles  ;  it  knelt  on  the  threshold  of  the  temple,  in  the 
midst  of  the  applause  of  the  people ;  then,  arrived  at  the 
centre  of  the  nave,  it  voided  its  excrements,  and  the 
devotees  drew  from  this  steaming  matter  presages  as  to  their 
agriculture.  On  feast  days  the  fluvial  populations  bound 
their  heads  with  bryony  and,  at  night,  they  crossed  the 
water  with  songs  and  music,  bearing  in  their  hands  branches 
full  of  leaves.  At  daybreak,  in  the  fields,  the  virgins  washed 
their  hands,  feet,  and  faces  in  the  fresh  dew,  to  accomplish 
a  vow.  On  the  mountains,  on  the  plains,  the  first  sun  of 
the  spring  was  saluted  by  ancient  hymns,  by  the  clash  of 
crashing  metals,  by  cries  and  dances.  Throughout  the 
entire  district  the  men,  women,  and  children  sought  the 
first  serpents  emerged  from  their  lethargy,  seized  them  alive, 
and  wound  them  around  their  necks  and  arms,  so  as  to  present 
themselves  thus  ornamented  before  their  Saint,  who  would 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  229 

render  them  proof  against  venomous  bites.  On  the  inclines 
of  the  sun-bathed  hills  the  young  toilers,  with  their  yoked 
oxen,  in  presence  of  their  old  men,  rivalled  one  another  as 
to  who  should  trace  the  straightest  furrow  from  the  hill-top 
to  the  plain ;  and  the  judges  awarded  the  prize  to  the  con- 
queror, while  the  father,  in  tears,  opened  his  arms  to  his 
well-deserving  son.  And  so,  in  all  the  ceremonies,  in  all 
the  pomps,  in  all  the  labors,  in  all  the  games,  in  the  births, 
in  the  loves,  in  the  marriages,  funerals,  everywhere  was 
present  and  visible  a  georgic  symbol,  everywhere  was 
represented  and  venerated  the  great  producer  Earth,  from 
whose  womb  gushed  forth  the  sources  of  all  that  was  good 
and  joyful.  The  women  of  the  family  gathered  at  the 
house  of  the  newly  married,,  bearing  on  their  heads  a  basket 
of  wheat-corn,  on  the  wheat  a  loaf  of  bread,  and  on  the  loaf 
a  flower;  they  entered  one  by  one,  and  sprinkled  a  handful 
of  that  augural  grain  on  the  head  of  the  happy  wife.  At 
the  foot  of  a  dying  man's  bed,  when  the  death-agony  was 
prolonged,  two  kinsmen  deposited  a  ploughshare,  which 
had  the  virtue  of  interrupting  the  horrors  and  of  hastening 
death.  The  tool  and  the  fruit  thus  assumed  superior  sig- 
nificance and  power.  A  profound  sentiment  and  continual 
desire  for  mystery  gave  to  all  these  environing  things  an 
active  soul,  benign  or  malignant,  of  good  or  evil  augury, 
that  participated  in  every  vicissitude  of  fortune,  by  a  man- 
ifest or  occult  action.  A  vesicating  leaf  pressed  on  the 
bared  arm  revealed  love  or  indifference ;  the  hearth-chains 
thrown  in  the  road  exorcised  the  menacing  hurricane;  a 
mortar  placed  on  the  edge  of  the  window  recalled  the  lost 
pigeons ;  the  swallowed  heart  of  a  sparrow  communicated 
wisdom.  Mystery  intervened  in  every  event,  enveloped 
and  bound  every  existence ;  and  the  supernatural  life  dom- 
inated, concealed,  and  absorbed  the  ordinary  life  by  creat- 


LJ 


230  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

ing  innumerable  and  indestructible  phantoms,  which  peo- 
pled the  fields,  inhabited  the  houses,  encumbered  the 
heavens,  troubled  the  eyes. 

Mystery  and  rhythm,  those  two  essential  elements  of  every 
cult  were  scattered  everywhere.  Men  and  women  contin- 
ually expressed  their  soul  in  song,  accompanied  by  song  all 
their  labors  under  roof  and  heaven,  celebrated  by  song  both 
life  and  death.  Around  the  cradles  and  around  the  biers, 
music  was  shed,  slow  and  persistent,  very  ancient,  as 
ancient,  perhaps,  as  the  race  whose  profound  sorrows  they 
manifested.  Sad,  grave,  fixed  in  immutable  rhythm,  they 
seemed  the  fragments  of  hymns  that  had  belonged  to  the 
immemorial  liturgies  which  had  survived  the  destruction  of 
some  great  primordial  myth.  They  were  few  in  number, 
but  so  dominating  that  the  new  songs  could  not  displace 
them  or  diminish  their  hold.  They  were  transmitted  from 
generation  to  generation  like  an  inner  heritage,  inherent  in 
the  corporeal  substance ;  and  each  one,  on  awaking  in 
this  life,  heard  them  resound  in  himself  like  an  innate 
language  to  which  the  voice  gave  a  visible  form.  Just  as 
well  as  the  mountains,  the  valleys,  and  the  rivers ;  just  as 
well  as  the  customs,  the  vices,  the  virtues  and  beliefs,  they 
formed  a  part  of  the  structure  of  the  country  and  of  the  race. 
They  were  as  immortal  as  the  glebe  and  as  the  blood. 

Such  was  the  country,  such  was  the  race,  visited  by  this 
New  Messiah,  of  whom  the  old  peasant  had  related  the  life 
and  miracles.  Who  was  this  man  ?  An  ascetic,  ingenuous 
and  innocent  as  Semplice,  the  worshipper  of  the  sun?  A 
cunning  and  covetous  charlatan,  who  was  trying  to  play 
upon  the  credulity  of  his  devotees  for  his  own  profit  ?  Who, 
really,  was  this  man  who,  from  the  border  of  a  small  river, 
could  gather,  by  his  name  alone,  multitudes  from  both  near 
and  far,  induce  mothers  to  desert  their  children,  awaken 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  231 

in  the  souls  of  the  most  ignorant  the  visions  and  the  voices 
of  another  world  ? 

And,  once  more,  George  evoked  the  figure  of  Oreste, 
attired  in  his  red  tunic,  going  up  the  little,  sinuous  river, 
where,  beneath  the  endless  shivering  of  the  poplars,  a  stream 
of  water  ran  over  a  bed  of  polished  sand. 

"'  Who  knows,"  he  thought,  "  if  this  unexpected  revela- 
tion will  not  be  my  salvation  ?  In  order  that  I  should  be 
myself  again,  in  order  that  I  should  recognize  my  true 
essence,  do  I  not  need  to  put  myself  in  immediate  contact 
with  the  race  from  which  I  have  sprung  ?  In  burying  again 
the  roots  of  my  being  in  the  natal  soil,  shall  I  not  suck  up  a 
pure  and  revivifying  sap,  which  will  have  the  power  to  expel 
all  that  is  false  and  heterogeneous  in  me,  all  that  I  have 
consciously  and  unconsciously  received  by  a  thousand  con- 
tagions ?  Just  now,  I  do  not  seek  the  truth ;  I  seek  only 
to  recuperate  my  own  substance,  to  replace  in  myself  the 
characters  of  my  race,  so  as  to  strengthen  them  and  render 
them  as  intense  as  possible.  In  thus  harmonizing  my  soul 
with  the  diffused  soul,  I  shall  recover  that  equilibrium 
which  I  lack.  For  the  intellectual  man,  the  secret  of 
equilibrium  is  to  know  how  to  transport  the  instincts,  the 
wants,  the  tendencies,  and  the  fundamental  sentiments  of 
his  race  to  a  superior  order." 

Mystery  and  rhythm  were  scattered  everywhere.  Near 
by,  on  the  foaming  beach,  the  sea  breathed  at  equal  inter- 
vals; but  during  the  pauses  one  heard,  more  and  more 
feebly,  the  cadences  of  the  waves,  which  touched  the  shore 
at  constantly  increasing  periods.  Reverberated,  doubtless 
by  the  echo  of  some  sonorous  hollow,  the  chant  of  the  pil- 
grims was  heard  once  more,  then  died  away.  Over  the 
Vasto  d'  Aimone  the  sky  was  lit  up  by  frequent  flashes  of 
lightning,  and  in  the  calm  moonlight  the  flashes  appeared 


232  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

red.  Hippolyte  was  dreaming,  leaning  against  the  trunk 
of  a  tree,  her  eyes  watching  the  silent  flashes. 

She  had  not  made  a  single  movement.  Her  prolonged 
immobility  in  the  same  attitude  was  frequent  enough ;  and, 
at  times,  it  took  on  a  cataleptic  appearance  which  was 
almost  alarming.  She  had  then  no  longer  the  young  and 
kind  aspect  which  the  plants  and  beasts  knew  so  well,  but 
the  appearance  of  a  taciturn  and  indomptable  creature  in 
whom  were  concentrated  all  the  isolated,  exclusive,  and 
destructive  virtues  of  the  passion  of  love.  The  three  divine 
elements  of  her  beauty — her  brow,  her  eyes,  her  mouth — had 
perhaps  never  attained  such  a  degree  of  symbolic  intensity  to 
illustrate  the  principle  of  the  eternal  feminine  fascination. 
It  seemed  that  the  serene  night  favored  this  sublimation  of 
her  form,  that  it  liberated  the  true,  ideal  essence  of  her 
being,  that  it  permitted  her  lover  to  know  her  entirely,  not 
by  the  acuteness  of  view  but  by  that  of  thought.  The  sum- 
mer night,  full  of  lunary  brilliancy  and  of  dreams,  and  of 
pale  or  invisible  stars,  and  of  the  most  melodious  marine 
voices,  seemed  the  natural  field  of  that  sovereign  image. 
The  same  as  the  shadow  grew  at  times  out  of  entire  propor- 
tion to  the  body  that  caused  it,  the  same  as  against  the  in- 
finity of  that  background,  the  fatality  of  love  rendered  the 
person  of  Hippolyte  higher  and  more  tragic  for  the  spec- 
tators whose  prescience  became  every  instant  more  lucid 
and  more  terrible. 

Was  it  not,  in  the  same  immobility,  the  same  woman 
who,  from  the  height  of  the  loggia,  had  contemplated  the 
single  white  sail  on  the  dead  waters  ?  It  was  she ;  and  now 
again,  in  spite  of  the  night  which  despoiled  her  person  ot 
all  brutal  reality,  the  same  hatred  moved  under  the  senti- 
ment excited  by  her — that  mortal  hatred  of  the  sexes  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  love,  and  which,  occult  or  openly,  sub- 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  233 

sists  at  the  bottom  of  every  effect,  from  the  first  glance  up 
to  extreme  disgust. 

"So,"  he  thought,  "  she  is  the  Enemy.  As  long  as  she 
lives,  as  long  as  she  can  exercise  her  empire  over  me,  she 
will  prevent  me  from  putting  foot  on  the  threshold  I  per- 
ceive. And  how  can  I  recover  my  substance,  if  a  great 
portion  of  myself  is  in  the  hands  of  this  woman  ?  Vain  is 
the  aspiration  towards  the  new  world,  towards  a  new  life. 
As  long  as  love  endures,  the  axis  of  the  world  rests  on  a 
single  being,  and  life  is  shut  in  by  a  narrow  circle.  To 
revive  and  conquer,  I  must  free  myself  from  love ;  I  must 
deliver  myself  from  the  Enemy." 

Once  more  he  imagined  her  dead. 

"  Dead,  she  would  become  an  object  for  thought,  a  pure 
ideality.  From  a  precarious  and  imperfect  existence,  she 
would  enter  into  an  integral  and  definite  one,  freed  forever 
from  her  weak  flesh,  so  frail  and  sensual.  Destroy  to 
possess  !  He  who  seeks  the  absolute  in  love  has  no  other 
means." 

Suddenly,  Hippolyte  started  violently,  as  if  an  extraordi- 
nary shudder  had  shaken  her.  She  said,  alluding  to  the 
common  superstition : 

"  Death  has  just  passed." 

And  she  smiled.  But  her  lover,  struck  by  the  strange 
coincidence,  could  not  repress  an  instinctive  movement  of 
stupor  and  fright. 

"  Could  she  have  felt  my  thought  ?  " 

The  dog  began  to  bark  with  sudden  fury,  and  they  both 
rose  at  the  same  time. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  said  Hippolyte,  uneasy. 

The  dog  barked  with  renewed  energy,  still  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  olive-groves.  Candia  and  the  old  man 
came  out  of  the  house. 


234  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  repeated  Hippolyte,  uneasy. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  gazing  into  the 
darkness. 

The  sound  of  a  human  voice  came  from  the  olive-trees, 
an  imploring,  sobbing  voice.  Then  appeared  an  indis- 
tinct form,  which  Candia  immediately  recognized. 

"Liberata!" 

The  mother  carried  on  her  head  the  cradle,  covered  with 
a  dark  cloth.  She  walked  erect,  almost  rigid,  without  turn- 
ing,  without  deviating  from  her  path,  absorbed  in  herself, 
mute  like  a  sinister  somnambulist,  blindly  impelled  towards 
an  unknown  goal.  And  a  man  followed  her  bareheaded, 
beside  himself,  sobbing,  imploring,  calling  her  by  her 
name,  bending,  beating  his  sides  or  burying  his  hands  in 
his  hair  with  gestures  of  atrocious  despair.  Grotesque  and 
miserable,  following  the  steps  of  the  deaf  woman,  he  howled, 
amidst  his  sobs : 

"  Liberata  !  Liberata  !  Listen  !  Listen  !  Come  back 
to  the  house  !  Oh,  my  God,  my  God !  where  are  you 
going  ?  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Liberata  !  Listen  ! 
Listen  !  Oh,  my  God,  my  God  !  " 

He  implored  to  retain  her,  to  stop  her ;  but  he  did  not 
touch  her.  He  held  his  hands  out  to  her  with  gestures  fran- 
tic with  pain ;  but  he  did  not  touch  her,  as  if  some  myste- 
rious cause  prevented  him,  as  if  a  charm  had  rendered  that 
person  intangible. 

Candia  neither  went  to  meet  her,  nor  did  she  bar  her 
way.  She  simply  asked  the  man  : 

"  What's  the  matter  ?    What's  happened  ?  " 

The  man,  with  a  gesture,  signified  her  dementia.  And 
that  recalled  to  the  memory  of  George  and  Hippolyte  the 
words  of  the  gossips  :  "  She  is  mad.  She  has  become 
mute,  signora.  She  has  not  spoken  for  three  days." 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  335 

"  She  is  mad.     She  is  mad." 

Candia  pointed  to  the  covered  cradle,  asking  again  in  a 
low  voice : 

"Is  he  dead?" 

The  man  sobbed  louder.  And  that  recalled  to  the  mem- 
ory of  George  and  Hippolyte  the  words  of  the  gossips : 
"He's  stopped  crying.  Poor  creature!  Is  he  asleep? 
He  looks  like  a  little  corpse.  He  doesn't  move.  He's 
asleep,  he's  asleep.  .  .  .  He's  not  in  pain  now." 

"  Liberata  !  "  cried  Candia,  with  all  the  strength  of  her 
lungs,  as  if  to  rouse  the  impassive  creature.  "  Liberata ! 
Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

But  she  did  not  move  her,  did  not  prevent  her  from 
going  her  way. 

Then,  all  were  silent,  and  watched. 

The  mother  continued  to  advance,  tall  and  erect,  almost 
rigid,  without  turning,  fixing  before  her  her  dilated  and  dry 
eyes,  her  mouth  tightly  closed,  a  mouth  which  seemed  closed 
as  by  a  seal,  as  if  already  vowed  to  perpetual  silence  and 
deprived  of  breath.  On  her  head  she  balanced  the  cradle, 
changed  into  a  coffin;  and  the  lamentation  of  the  man 
assumed  the  continuous  rhythm  of  a  monody. 

The  tragic  couple  crossed  the  court  in  this  way,  de- 
scended the  path  recently  beaten  by  the  steps  of  the  pil- 
grims, and  on  which  still  floated  the  religious  soul  that  the 
hymn  had  left  there. 

And  the  lovers,  their  hearts  oppressed  by  pity  and  horror, 
followed  with  their  eyes  the  figure  of  the  funereal  mother, 
who  disappeared  in  the  night,  in  the  direction  of  the  flash- 
ing  lightning. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Now  it  was  no  longer  Hippolyte,  but  George,  who  pro- 
posed long  excursions,  long  explorations.  Condemned  to 
"  be  always  waiting  for  life,"  he  believed  in  going  to  meet 
it,  to  find  and  gather  it  in  the  visible  realities. 

His  factitious  curiosity  was  attracted  now  to  those  things 
which,  scarcely  capable  of  effectively  moving  the  surface 
of  the  soul,  could  not  penetrate  it  and  stir  it  to  its  depth. 
He  tried  to  discover,  between  his  soul  and  certain  things, 
connections  which  did  not  exist;  he  tried  to  shake  the 
indifference  of  his  inmost  being,  that  inert  indifference 
that  had  rendered  him  so  long  a  stranger  to  all  external  agi- 
tation. Collecting  all  the  perspicuous  faculties  he  pos- 
sessed, he  applied  himself  to  find  some  living  resemblance 
between  himself  and  the  surrounding  nature  that  he  might 
reconcile  himself  in  a  filial  way  with  that  nature,  and  vow 
to  it  eternal  fidelity. 

But  there  was  not  awakened  in  him  the  extraordinary 
emotion  which  had  several  times  exalted  and  astounded 
him  in  the  first  days  of  his  stay  at  the  Hermitage,  before 
the  arrival  of  the  loved  one.  He  could  resuscitate  neither 
the  panicky  intoxication  of  the  first  day,  when  he  had  be- 
lieved he  truly  felt  the  sun  in  his  heart,  nor  the  melancholy 
charm  of  the  first  solitary  walk,  nor  the  unexpected  and 
divine  joy  which  had  been  communicated  to  him  on  that 
May  morning  by  the  song  of  Favetta  and  the  perfume  of  the 
furze,  freshened  by  the  dew.  On  the  earth  and  on  the  sea, 


THE    NEW    LIFE. 


men  cast  a  tragic  shadow.  Poverty,  disease,  dementia,  ter- 
ror, and  death  lay  in  wait,  or  were  exhibited  everywhere 
on  his  path.  A  wave  of  fierce  fanaticism  was  sweeping  from 
one  end  of  the  country  to  the  other.  Night  and  day,  far 
and  near,  religious  hymns  resounded,  monotonous  and  in- 
terminable. The  Messiah  was  expected,  and  the  poppies 
in  the  wheat  recalled  the  image  of  his  red  tunic. 

Around  him,  faith  consecrated  every  vegetable  form.  The 
Christian  legend  twined  itself  around  the  trunks  of  the 
trees,  blossomed  amid  the  branches.  On  the  knees  of  the 
Madonna,  a  fugitive,  and  pursued  by  the  Pharisees,  the 
Infant  Jesus  was  changed  into  wheat  that  overflowed.  Hid- 
den in  the  bin,  he  made  the  dough  rise  and  rendered  it 
inexhaustible.  Over  the  dry  and  thorny  lupines  which  had 
wounded  the  Virgin's  gentle  feet  was  suspended  a  curse  ;  but 
the  flax  was  blessed,  because  their  hulls  had  dazzled  the 
Pharisees.  Blessed  also  the  olive-tree  for  having  given 
shelter  to  the  Holy  Family  in  its  open  trunk,  in  the  form 
of  a  cabin,  and  for  having  lighted  it  with  its  pure  oil; 
blessed  the  juniper  for  having  held  the  Infant  enclosed  in 
its  tufts  ;  and  blessed  the  holly  for  the  same  courteous  ser- 
vice; and  blessed  the  laurel  because  it  springs  from  the 
soil  sprinkled  by  the  water  in  which  had  been  washed  the 
Son  of  God. 

How  could  he  escape  the  fascination  of  the  mystery 
which  spread  over  all  created  things  and  transfigured  them 
into  signs  and  er-jblems  of  another  life  ? 

George,  troubled  by  these  suggestions,  which  provoked  in 
him  the  confused  rising  of  all  his  mystic  tendencies,  said 
to  himself  :  "  Oh  !  if  I  possessed  the  true  faith,  that  faith 
which  enabled  Saint  Theresa  to  actually  see  God  in  the 
host."  And  this  was  not  a  vague  or  passing  desire:  it 
was  a  profound  and  fervent  aspiration  of  his  entire  soul, 


238  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

and  it  was  also  an  extraordinary  anguish,  which  distressed 
all  the  elements  of  his  substance;  because  he  felt  that 
this  was  the  secret  of  his  unhappiness  and  weakness.  Like 
Demetrius  Aurispa,  George  was  an  ascetic  without  a  God. 

And  he  reappeared  to  his  mind,  a  mild,  meditative  man, 
with  a  face  full  of  a  virile  melancholy,  and  a  single  white 
curl  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  among  the  black  hair, 
giving  him  an  odd  appearance. 

Demetrius  was  his  real  father.  By  a  singular  coincidence 
of  names,  that  spiritual  paternity  seemed  consecrated  in 
the  legend  inscribed  around  the  marvellous  ostensory  given 
by  the  ancestors,  and  preserved  in  the  cathedral  at  Guar- 
diagrele. 

|  EGO  DEMETRIUS  AURISPA  ET  UNICUS  GEORGIUS  FILIUS  MEUS 
DONAMUS  ISTUD  TABERNACULUM  EcCLESIAE  S.  M.  DE  GUARDIA, 
QUOD  FACTUM  EST  PER  MANUS  ABBATIS  JOANNIS  CASTORII  DE  GUAR- 
DIA,  ARCHIPRESBYTERI,  AD  USUM  EUCHARISTIAE. 

|  NICOLAUS  ANDRAE  DE  GUARDIA  ME  FECIT  A.D.  MCCCCXIII. 

Both,  in  fact,  beings  of  intelligence  and  sentiment,  bore 
the  mystic  heredity  of  the  house  of  Aurispa ;  both  had  the 
religious  soul,  inclined  to  mystery,  apt  to  live  in  a  forest 
of  symbols  or  in  a  heaven  of  pure  abstractions ;  both  loved 
the  ceremonies  of  the  Latin  Church,  sacred  music,  the  per- 
fume of  incense,  all  the  sensualities  of  worship,  the  most 
violent  and  the  most  delicate.  But  they  had  lost  faith. 
They  knelt  before  an  altar  deserted  by  God.  Their  misery 
arose  therefore  from  a  metaphysical  need,  which  implaca- 
ble doubt  prohibited  to  blossom,  to  satisfy,  to  repose  on 
the  divine  lap.  As  they  had  not  conformed  themselves  in 
such  a  manner  that  they  could  accept  and  sustain  the  battle 
for  vulgar  existence,  they  had  learned  the  necessity  of  seclu- 
sion. But  how  could  the  man  exiled  from  life  rest  in  a 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  239 

cell  which  lacked  the  sign  of  the  Eternal  ?  Solitude  is 
the  supreme  proof  of  the  humility  or  the  sovereignty  of  a 
soul ;  because  it  is  only  borne  on  the  condition  of  having 
renounced  all  for  God,  or  on  the  condition  of  having  a  soul 
so  strong  that  it  might  serve  as  an  immovable  foundation 
for  a  world. 

All  at  once,  one  of  them,  feeling  perhaps  that  the  vio- 
lence of  his  pain  began  to  exceed  the  resistance  of  his 
organs,  had  wished  to  transform  himself  by  death  into  a 
higher  being;  and  he  launched  into  the  mystery,  from 
which  he  contemplated  the  survivor  with  undimmed  eyes. 
— Ego  Demetrius  Aurispa  et  unicus  Georgius  filius  meus. 

Now,  in  his  lucid  moments,  the  survivor  comprehended 
that  he  would  in  no  way  succeed  in  realizing  the  type  of 
exuberant  life,  the  "  Dionysiac  "  ideal  seen  as  in  a  light- 
ning flash  beneath  the  great  oak,  when  he  had  tasted  the 
bread  freshly  broken  by  the  young  and  joyous  woman.  He 
realized  that  his  intellectual  and  moral  faculties,  too  dis- 
proportioned,  would  never  succeed  in  finding  their  equilib- 
rium and  their  model.  He  realized,  finally,  that,  instead 
of  striving  to  reconquer  himself  for  himself,  it  was  himself 
he  should  renounce,  and  that  two  ways  only  could  lead  him 
to  it :  either  to  follow  the  example  of  Demetrius,  or  to 
give  himself  to  heaven. 

The  second  alternative  fascinated  him.  In  considering 
it,  tie  made  an  abstraction  of  the  unfavorable  circumstances 
and  immediate  obstacles,  impelled  by  his  irresistible  desire 
to  completely  construct  all  his  illusions  and  to  inhabit  them 
for  a  few  hours.  On  this  natal  earth,  did  he  not  feel  him- 
self enveloped  by  the  ardor  of  faith  much  more  than  by  the  fire 
of  the  sun  ?  Had  he  not  in  his  veins  the  purest  Christian 
blood?  Did  not  the  ascetic  ideal  circulate  in  the  branches 
of  his  race,  from  the  noble  donor  Demetrius  down  to  the 


240  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

pitiful  creature  named  Joconda?  Was  it,  therefore,  impos- 
sible that  this  ideal  should  be  regenerated  in  him,  should  be 
elevated  to  its  supreme  heights,  should  attain  the  limit  of 
human  ecstasy  in  God  ?  In  him,  all  was  ready  to  magnify 
the  event.  He  possessed  every  quality  of  the  ascetic ;  the 
contemplative  mind,  the  taste  for  symbols  and  allegories, 
the  faculty  of  abstraction,  an  extreme  sensibility  for  visual 
and  aural  suggestions,  an  organic  tendency  towards  domi- 
nating images  and  hallucinations.  He  lacked  but  one 
thing,  a  great  thing,  but  which  perhaps  was  not  dead  in 
him,  and  only  slumbered  :  the  faith,  the  ancient  faith  of  the 
donor,  the  ancient  faith  of  his  race,  that  which  came  down 
from  the  mountain  and  chanted  praises  on  the  seashore. 

How  to  awaken  it  ?  How  to  resuscitate  it  ?  No  artifice 
would  be  efficacious.  He  must  wait  for  a  sudden  spark,  an 
unexpected  shock.  He  must,  perhaps,  like  the  followers 
of  Oreste,  see  the  lightning  flash  and  hear  the  Word  in  the 
midst  of  a  field,  at  the  turn  of  a  road. 

And,  once  more,  he  recalled  the  figure  of  Oreste,  attired 
in  his  red  tunic,  advancing  along  the  side  of  a  little,  sinuous 
river,  where,  beneath  the  shivering  of  the  poplars,  a  stream 
of  water  coursed  over  a  bed  of  polished  sand.  He  imagined 
a  meeting,  a  conversation  with  Oreste.  It  was  at  noon, 
on  the  coast,  close  to  a  field  of  wheat.  The  Messiah  spoke 
like  a  simple,  humble  man,  smiling  with  virginal  candor; 
and  his  teeth  were  as  white  as  jasmine.  In  the  great 
silence  of  the  sea,  the  continuous  murmur  of  the  breakers 
at  the  foot  of  the  promontory  imitated  the  distant  chords 
of  an  organ.  But,  behind  this  mild  person,  in  the  gold 
of  the  ripe  harvest,  waved  the  poppies,  violent  symbols  of 
desire. 

"  Desire  !  "  thought  George,  thus  recalling  his  mistress 
and  the  corporeal  sorrow  of  his  love.  "  Who  will  kill 


THE    NEW    LIFE. 


24I 


desire?"  The  admonitions  of  Ecclesiastes  recurred  to 
him.  Non  des  mulieri  potestatem  animae  fuae.  A  muliere 
initium  factum  est  peccati,  et  per  illam  omnes  morimur.  He 
saw,  at  the  sacred  dawn  of  the  ages,  in  a  delicious  garden, 
the  first  man,  solitary  and  sad,  attracted  by  the  first  com- 
panion ;  and  he  saw  this  companion  become  the  scourge  of 
the  world,  spread  everywhere  pain  and  death.  But  volup- 
tuousness, contemplated  as  a  sin,  appeared  to  him  prouder, 
more  disturbing ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  no  other  intoxica- 
tion equalled  the  frantic  intoxication  of  the  embraces  to 
which  the  martyrs  of  the  early  church  surrendered  them- 
selves, in  the  prisons  where  they  awaited  punishment. 
He  evoked  pictures  of  women  who,  mad  with  terror  and 
love,  presented  for  kisses  their  faces  bathed  in  silent 
tears. 

In  aspiring  to  faith  and  redemption,  what  did  he,  there- 
fore, but  aspire  to  new  thrills  and  spasms,  to  unknown 
voluptuous  sensations  ?  Infringe  on  duty  and  obtain  par- 
don; commit  a  fault  and  confess  it  tearfully;  confess  the 
slightest  miseries  while  exaggerating  them,  and  accuse  one- 
self of  mediocre  vices  while  magnifying  them  almost  to 
enormity;  incessantly  place  one's  sick  soul  and  ailing 
flesh  in  the  hands  of  a  merciful  physician — had  not  these 
things  an  entirely  sensual  fascination  ? 

From  the  beginning,  his  passion  had  been  impregnated 
with  a  pious  odor  of  incense  and  violets.  He  recalled  the 
Epiphany  of  Love,  in  the  deserted  oratory  of  the  Via  Bel- 
siana  :  the  little,  mysterious  chapel  was  plunged  in  a  bluish 
penumbra ;  a  choir  of  young  girls  garlanded  the  rostrum, 
curved  like  a  balcony;  below,  an  orchestra  of  string  instru- 
ments stood  up  before  the  music  stands  of  white  pine; 
roundabout,  in  the  oaken  stalls,  were  seated  the  few  audi- 
tors, almost  all  gray  or  bald;  the  chapel-master  beat  time; 
16 


242  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

a  religious  odor  of  evaporated  incense  and  of  violets  min- 
gled with  the  music  of  Sebastian  Bach. 

He  recalled  also  the  dream  of  Orvieto,  conjured  up 
once  more  the  vision  of  the  silent  city  of  the  Guelphs  : 
windows  closed ;  grayish  alleys  in  which  the  grasses  grew ;  a 
capuchin  monk  crossing  a  square ;  a  bishop  all  in  black, 
descending  from  a  carriage  which  has  stopped  in  front  of  a 
hospital,  with  a  decrepit  servant  at  the  carriage  door;  a 
tower  rising  against  a  white  and  rainy  sky ;  a  clock  slowly 
chiming  the  hour;  and  all  of  a  sudden,  at  the  bottom  of  a 
street,  a  miracle — the  Duomo. 

Had  he  not  dreamt  of  taking  refuge  at  the  summit  of  that 
rock  of  tufa,  crowned  by  monasteries  ?  Had  he  not,  more 
than  once,  sincerely  aspired  to  that  silence,  that  peace  ? 
And  now  this  dream  also  returned  to  his  soul,  suggested  by 
an  effeminate  languor  on  this  warm  and  ashy  April  day.  To 
have  a  mistress,  or,  to  express  it  better,  a  sister-lover,  who 
would  be  very  devoted ;  to  go  away  yonder  and  stay  there. 
.  .  To  spend  hours  and  hours  in  the  cathedral,  in 
front  of  it,  around  it ;  to  go  and  gather  roses  in  the  gar- 
dens of  the  convents ;  to  visit  the  sisters  and  eat  preserves. 
.  .  .  To  love  a  great  deal  and  sleep  a  great  deal,  in  a 
soft  bed,  all  veiled  in  virginal  white,  between  two  pray- 
ing-stools. .  . 

He  was  seized  once  more  by  the  languid  nostalgia  of  the 
darkness,  of  the  silence,  of  the  closed  and  isolated  retreat 
in  which  could  blossom  the  most  frail  flowers,  the  most 
subtle  thoughts,  the  most  disturbing  sensualities.  All  that 
dazzling  sunlight  on  those  lines,  too  distinct  and  too 
strong,  appeared  almost  offensive  to  him.  And  the  same 
as  the  image  of  the  murmuring  spring  fascinates  the  brain  of 
him  who  is  thirsty,  so  he  was  haunted  by  the  cool  and  medi- 
tative shadow  of  a  Roman  nave. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  243 

The  summons  of  the  bells  did  not  reach  as  far  as  the 
Hermitage,  or,  at  least,  it  only  arrived  at  rare  intervals  on 
the  swells  of  a  light  breeze.  The  church  of  the  market 
town  was  too  far  away,  commonplace  perhaps,  certainly 
without  any  reputation  for  beauty  or  ancient  tradition. 
George  wanted  a  retreat  nearer  at  hand,  and  one  worthy  of 
him,  where  his  mysticism  might  flower  aesthetically  as 
in  that  deep  marble  urn  which  enclosed  the  Dantesque 
visions  of  Luca  Signorelli. 

He  recalled  the  abbey  of  Saint  Clement  at  Casauria,  seen 
in  one  of  the  distant  days  of  his  adolescence,  and  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  visited  it  in  the  company  of  Deme- 
trius. The  recollection,  like  all  recollections  connected 
with  his  kinsman,  was  as  distinct  and  precise  as  if  it  had 
dated  only  from  the  day  before. 

He  and  Demetrius  were  descending  the  highroad  towards 
the  abbey,  still  hidden  by  the  trees.  An  infinite  calm 
reigned  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  solitary  and  magnificent 
spot,  over  the  wide  road  of  grasses  and  stones,  deserted, 
uneven,  as  if  marked  with  gigantic  and  silent  vestiges,  and 
the  beginning  of  which  was  lost  in  the  mystery  of  the  dis- 
tant and  sacred  mountains.  One  felt  still  floating  there  a 
primordial  holiness,  as  if  the  grasses  and  stones  had  just 
been  trodden  by  a  long  migration  of  biblical  bands  in 
search  of  a  maritime  horizon.  Below,  on  the  plain,  the 
basilica  appeared — almost  a  ruin.  All  around,  the  ground 
was  encumbered  with  debris  and  brambles ;  fragments  of 
sculptured  stone  were  heaped  against  the  pillars;  wild 
grasses  hung  from  every  crevice ;  recent  constructions,  of 
brick  and  lime,  closed  up  large  openings  in  the  lateral 
arcades;  the  doors  were  off  their  hinges.  A  band  of  pil- 
grims were  taking  a  siesta  in  the  court,  brutishly,  undet 
the  very  noble  portal  erected  by  Leonato  the  Magnificent. 


244  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

But  the  three  intact  arched  windows,  above  the  several  capi- 
tals, looked  so  graceful  and  proud,  and  the  September  sun 
gave  to  the  light  and  soft  stone  such  a  precious  appearance, 
that  both  of  them,  Demetrius  and  himself,  had  felt  they 
were  in  the  presence  of  a  sovereign  beauty. 

Fascinated  by  the  remembrance,  the  survivor  had  only 
one  wish,  a  chimerical  one — to  return  to  the  spot,  to  see  the 
basilica  again,  to  take  up  his  dwelling  there  so  as  to  protect 
it  from  ruin,  to  restore  it  to  its  primitive  beauty,  to  rees- 
tablish there  the  great  worship,  and,  after  so  long  a  period 
of  desertion  and  oblivion,  renew  the  Chronicon  Casaurienne . 

He  said  to  Hippolyte : 

"  Perhaps  we'll  change  our  quarters.  Do  you  remember 
the  dream  of  Orvieto  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  cried;  "the  city  of  convents,  where 
you  wanted  to  take  me  ! ' ' 

"  I  want  to  take  you  to  a  deserted  abbey,  more  ^nely 
than  our  Hermitage,  beautiful  as  a  cathedral,  full  of  very 
old  memories,  where  there  is  a  great  candelabra  of  white 
marble,  a  marvellous  work  of  art  by  some  unknown  artist. 
Erect  on  the  candelabra,  in  the  silence,  you  will  illuminate 
with  your  face  the  meditations  of  my  soul." 

He  smiled  at  this  lyric  phrase,  while  contemplating  at 
the  same  time  the  beautiful  image  evoked.  And  she,  in 
the  ingenuousness  of  her  egotism,  with  that  tenacious  ani- 
malism which  is  the  basis  of  the  feminine  being,  was 
intoxicated  by  nothing  more  than  by  this  passing  poesy. 
Her  happiness  was  to  appear  in  her  lover's  eyes  idealized, 
like  the  first  evening  in  the  bluish  street,  or  again  in  the 
secret  oratory  amid  the  religious  music  and  the  faded  per- 
fumes, or  like  on  the  wild  path  strewn  with  furze. 

In  her  most  chaste  voice,  she  asked  : 

"  When  do  we  go  ?" 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  245 

"  Will  you  go  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Very  well — to-morrow." 

"  Take  care  !  If  you  rise,  you  won't  be  able  to  come 
down. ' ' 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?     I'll  watch  you." 

"  You  will  burn,  you'll  be  consumed  like  a  candle." 

"I  will  light  you." 

"  You  will  also  light  my  funeral." 

He  spoke  lightly;  but  at  heart,  with  his  ordinary  inten- 
sity for  imaginary  life,  he  composed  a  mystic  fable.  After 
long  years  of  error  on  the  abyss  of  sensuality,  repentance  had 
come  to  him.  Initiated  by  this  woman  in  all  the  mysteries 
which  his  concupiscence  excited,  he  now  implored  from 
the  All  Merciful  the  grace  which  would  dissipate  the  un- 
bearable sadness  of  this  carnal  love.  "  Pity  for  my  pleas- 
ures in  the  past,  and  for  my  suffering  in  the  present ! 
Grant,  O  God  !  that  I  may  have  the  strength  to  accomplish 
the  Sacrifice  in  your  name  !"  And  he  fled,  followed  by 
his  mistress  in  search  of  the  refuge.  And,  finally,  on  the 
threshold  of  the  refuge  the  miracle  was  accomplished ;  for 
the  impure,  the  corrupt,  the  implacable  Enemy,  the  Rose 
of  Hell,  was  now  suddenly  cleansed  of  all  sin,  and  stood, 
chaste  and  immaculate,  ready  to  follow  her  loved  one  to 
the  altar.  On  the  summit  of  the  high  marble  candelabra, 
which  had  not  heard  the  voice  of  the  light  for  centuries, 
she  burned  in  the  inextinguishable  and  silent  flame  of  her 
love.  "  Erect  on  the  candelabra,  in  the  silence,  you  will 
illuminate  the  meditations  of  my  soul,  until  death."  She 
was  burning  with  an  inner  fire,  without  ever  claiming  any 
food  for  the  flames,  without  ever  asking  anything  from  the 
loved  one  in  return.  She  renounced  forever  all  possession  : 
higher  in  her  purity  than  God  himself,  since  God  loves  his 
creatures  but  exacts  from  them  a  reciprocity  of  love,  and 


246  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

becomes  terrible  against  those  who  refuse  to  love  him.  Her 
love  was  Stylite  love,  sublime  and  solitary,  nourishing  itself 
with  one  blood  and  one  soul.  She  had  felt  fall  around  her 
that  part  of  her  substance  which  was  opposed  to  an  entire 
offering.  Nothing  disquieting  or  impure  remained  in  her. 
Her  body  had  been  metamorphosed  into  a  subtle,  agile, 
diaphanous,  incorruptible  element ;  her  senses  had  dis- 
solved into  one  supreme  and  only  voluptuousness.  Set 
up  on  the  summit  of  the  marvellous  stela,  she  burned  up 
from  and  enjoyed  her  ardor  and  her  splendor  like  a  flame 
conscious  of  its  own  enflamed  existence. 

Hippolyte  listened  intently,  and  said : 

"  Don't  you  hear  ?  Another  procession  !  To-morrow  is 
the  Vigil." 

The  dawns,  the  noons,  the  twilights  and  the  nights 
rang  with  the  religious  chants.  One  procession  followed 
the  other,  in  the  hot  glare  of  the  sun,  in  the  silvery  rays  of 
the  moon.  All  were  emigrating  to  the  same  land  and 
were  celebrating  the  same  name,  animated  by  the  vehe- 
mence of  a  similar  passion,  terrible  and  wretched  in  appear- 
ance, deserting  on  the  highroads  the  sick  and  the  dying, 
without  stopping,  prompt  to  throw  down  no  matter  what 
obstacle  to  reach  the  place  where  awaited  them  the  balm 
for  all  their  ills,  the  promise  of  all  their  hopes.  They 
marched,  marched  ceaselessly,  obliterating  with  their  own 
sweat  their  footprints  in  the  endless  dust. 

What  an  immense  irradiation  of  strength  that  simple 
image  must  possess,  to  move  and  allure  all  these  masses  of 
heavy  flesh  !  Almost  four  centuries  before,  an  old  septua- 
genarian, in  a  plain  devastated  by  the  hail,  thought  he 
perceived  the  Virgin  of  Mercy  in  the  tops  of  a  tree ;  and 
since  then,  each  year,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  apparition, 
all  the  peoples  of  the  mountains  and  the  coast  have  gone 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  *47 

on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  holy  place  to  beseech  mercy  for  its 
sufferings. 

Hippolyte  had  already  heard  the  legend  from  Candie ; 
and  for  the  past  few  days  she  had  nourished  a  secret  desire 
to  visit  the  Sanctuary.  The  predominance  of  love  and  the 
habit  of  sensual  pleasure  had  banished  all  religious  senti- 
ment in  her ;  but,  a  Roman  of  good  family,  and,  what  is 
more,  born  in  the  Trastevere,  brought  up  in  one  of  those 
bourgeois  families  in  which,  according  to  immemorial  tradi- 
tion, the  key  of  the  conscience  is  always  in  the  hands  of 
a  priest,  she  was  a  strict  Catholic,  devoted  to  all  the  ex- 
ternal practices  of  the  Church,  subject  to  periodical  returns 
of  exalted  fervor. 

"  Meanwhile,  why  should  we  not  go  to  Casalbordino, 
too  ?  To-morrow  is  the  Vigil.  Let  us  go  there — shall 
we  ?  It  will  be  a  great  sight  for  you.  We'll  take  the  old 
man  with  us." 

George  consented.  Hippolyte's  desire  corresponded 
with  his  own.  He  thought  it  necessary  to  him  to  follow 
this  deep  current,  to  form  part  of  this  wild  conglomeration 
of  men,  to  experience  material  contact  with  the  inferior 
classes  of  his  race,  those  dense  and  immutable  layers  on 
which  the  primitive  impressions  had  perhaps  been  pre- 
served intact. 

"  We'll  start  to-morrow,"  he  added,  seized  by  a  kind  of 
anxiety  as  he  heard  the  chant  approaching. 

Hippolyte  told  him,  as  related  by  Candie,  some  of  the 
atrocious  tests  to  which  the  pilgrims  had  vowed  to  submit. 
She  shuddered  with  horror.  And,  while  the  chant  grew 
louder,  both  felt  a  tragic  breath  pass  over  their  souls. 

They  were  on  the  hill,  at  night.  The  moon  was  high  in 
the  sky.  A  cool  humidity  extended  over  the  vast  vegetable 
masses,  still  vibrating  from  the  storm  of  the  afternoon. 


248  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

All  the  leaves  were  weeping,  and  these  myriads  of  tears, 
scintillating  like  diamonds  in  the  moonlight,  transfigured 
the  forest.  As  George  had  accidentally  stumbled  over  the 
trunk  of  a  tree,  the  luminous  drops  of  the  shaken  branches 
fell  on  Hippolyte,  covering  her  with  constellations.  She 
gave  a  little  cry,  and  began  to  laugh. 

"Ah,  traitor!"  she  murmured,  convinced  that  George 
had  done  it  intentionally. 

And  she  took  measures  for  reprisals. 

Thus  shaken,  the  trees  and  bushes  threw  off  their  liquid 
gems  with  a  lively  crepitation,  while  Hippolyte's  laughs 
resounded  at  intervals,  on  the  slope  of  the  hill.  George 
also  laughed,  suddenly  forgetful  of  his  nightmare,  per- 
mitting himself  to  be  won  by  the  seduction  of  youth,  per- 
mitting himself  to  be  penetrated  by  this  bracing  nocturnal 
coolness  in  which  was  distilled  all  the  fragrance  of  the 
earth.  He  tried  to  reach  first  the  tree  whose  foliage  seemed 
most  heavily  laden  with  water;  and  she  tried  to  reach  it 
before  him,  running  courageously  on  the  slippery  declivity. 

They  almost  always  reached  the  tree  at  the  same  time, 
and  they  shook  it  together,  both  remaining  under  the 
shower.  In  the  unsteady  shadow  of  the  foliage  the  white- 
ness of  Hippolyte's  eyes  and  teeth  assumed  extraordinary 
lustre ;  and  the  tiny  drops,  like  diamond  dust,  glittered  on 
the  pretty  curls  on  her  temples,  on  her  cheeks,  on  her  lips, 
even  on  her  eyelashes,  trembling  from  her  laughter. 

"  Ah,  you  magician  !  "  cried  George,  letting  go  of  the 
tree  and  seizing  the  woman,  who  once  more  appeared  to 
him  in  a  mysterious  flash  of  nocturnal  beauty. 

He  began  to  kiss  her  all  over  her  face ;  and  to  his  lips 
she  was  cool  and  wet  with  dew,  like  fruit  just  plucked 
from  the  tree. 

"There!  there  !  there!" 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  249 

He  imprinted  hearty,  resounding  kisses  on  her  mouth, 
her  cheeks,  her  eyes,  her  temples,  her  neck,  as  insatiable 
as  if  the  flesh  were  a  novelty  to  him.  And,  as  she  felt  the 
kisses,  Hippolyte  took  that  almost  ecstatic  attitude  usual 
with  her  when  she  felt  that  her  lover  was  in  one  of  his 
moments  of  true  intoxication.  At  those  times,  she  seemed 
anxious  to  release  from  the  depths  of  her  own  substance  the 
sweetest  and  most  powerful  perfume  of  love,  to  excite 
George's  intoxication  to  the  point  of  anguish. 

"There!" 

He  stopped,  seized  by  anguish.  He  had  reached  the 
extreme  limit  of  sensation,  and  could  not  go  beyond. 

They  said  no  more ;  they  took  each  other's  hand ;  they 
continued  on  their  way  to  the  Hermitage,  cutting  across  the 
fields  because,  in  their  thoughtless  frolic,  they  had  wan- 
dered from  the  road.  They  felt  now  indefinable  lassitude 
and  melancholy.  George  seemed  astonished.  So  Life, 
unexpectedly,  like  a  furtive  gesture  in  the  shadow,  had 
offered  him  a  new  savour — a  new  sensation,  real  and  pro- 
found, at  the  close  of  a  day  full  of  anxiety,  spent  in  a 
cloister  of  flitting  phantoms  !  But  was  that  Life  ?  Was  it 
not  rather  Dreamland  ?  "  The  one  is  always  the  shadow  of 
the  other,"  he  thought.  There  where  is  Life,  there  is 
Dreamland ;  there  where  is  Dreamland,  there  is  Life. 

"  Look  !  "  interrupted  Hippolyte,  with  a  start  of  admi- 
ration. 

It  was  as  if  she  illustrated  with  a  picture  the  thought  he 
had  not  revealed. 

In  the  moonlight,  a  vine  was  there,  silent.  The  upright 
vine-stocks  were  twined  around  the  reeds  like  around  agile 
thyrses;  and  the  streaming  branches,  diaphanous  against 
the  luminous  horizon  with  a  thousand  intertwinings  of  their 
subtle  ribs,  in  the  perfect  immobility  of  mineral  things,  and 


2SO  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

with  an  appearance  of  indescribably  fragile  and  ephemeral 
crystal,  had  neither  terrestrial  reality  nor  any  communion 
with  the  environing  forms,  but  seemed  to  be  the  last  visible 
fragment  of  an  allegorical  world  conceived  by  a  theurgy  and 
about  to  fade  away. 

Spontaneously  arose  in  George's   memory  the  verse  of 
the  hymn  :  "  Vinea  mea  coram  me  est." 


CHAPTER  V.* 

SINCE  dawn,  train  after  train  had  vomited  immense  waves 
of  humanity  on  the  platforms  of  the  Casalbordino  Station, 
People  from  the  villages  and  market  towns  mingled  with 
fraternities  from  the  most  distant  hamlets  who  had  not 
wished,  or  been  able,  to  make  the  pilgrimage  on  foot. 
They  precipitated  themselves  in  a  tumult  from  the  car- 
riages, shouting,  gesticulating,  and  pushing  each  other  to 
storm  the  wagons  and  coaches,  amid  the  cracking  of  whips 
and  the  tinkling  of  bells ;  or,  again,  they  fell  into  line,  in 
long  files,  behind  a  crucifix,  and,  when  their  procession 
started  on  the  dusty  road,  they  struck  up  the  hymn. 

Already  frightened  by  the  size  of  the  crowd,  George  and 
Hippolyte  turned  instinctively  toward  the  sea  close  by,  to 
wait  until  the  crowd  dispersed.  A  field  of  hemp  undulated 
peacefully  before  the  blue  background  of  the  waters.  The 
sails  shone  like  flames  on  the  clear  horizon. 

George  said  to  his  companion  : 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  ?  I  fear  the  fatigue  will  hurt 
you." 

She  replied : 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed ;  I  am  strong.  Besides,  to  deserve 
a  favor,  must  one  not  suffer  a  little  ?  " 

*  It  should,  perhaps,  be  mentioned  here  that  the  publication  of 

The  Triumph  of  Death  "  began  in  the  Mattino,  of  Naples,   on 

February   12,    1893,    while   the    publication   of   £mile   Zola's  work 

"  Lourdes  "  only  began  in  the  Gil  Bias,  of  Paris,  on  April  15,  1894. 

—TRANSLATOR'S  NOTE. 


252  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

He  replied,  smiling : 

"  Are  you  going  to  ask  a  favor  ?  " 

"  Yes,  only  one." 

"  But  are  we  not  in  the  state  of  mortal  sin  ?" 

"That  is  true." 

"  Well,  then  ?  " 

"  I  shall  ask,  just  the  same." 

They  had  brought  with  them  old  Colas,  who,  acquainted 
with  the  localities  and  usages,  served  them  as  a  guide.  As 
soon  as  the  door  of  their  compartment  was  disencumbered 
they  descended,  and  got  into  a  coach  which  started  off  at  a 
gallop,  with  a  great  tinkling  of  bells.  The  horses  were  dec- 
orated and  plumed  like  barberi.  The  drivers  wore  peacocks' 
feathers  in  their  hats,  and  did  not  cease  flourishing  their 
whips,  accompanying  the  deafening  cracks  with  hoarse 
cries. 

Hippolyte,  tormented  by  impatience  and  extraordinary 
uneasiness,  as  if  this  day  were  to  realize  some  great 
event  for  her,  asked  the  old  man : 

"  How  long  will  it  take  to  get  there  ?  " 

"  Half  an  hour  at  the  most." 

"  Is  the  church  very  old  ?  " 

"  No,  signora.  I  can  still  remember  the  time  when  it 
didn't  exist.  Fifty  years  ago,  there  was  only  a  small 
chapel." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  paper  folded  in 
four,  unfolded  it,  and  showed  it  to  George. 

"  You  can  read  it.     It's  the  history  of  the  church." 

It  was  a  picture,  with  the  legend  at  the  bottom.  The 
Virgin,  in  a  cloud  of  angels,  was  seated  on  an  olive-tree, 
and  an  old  man  was  adoring  her,  prostrated  at  the  foot  of 
the  trunk.  This  old  man  was  named  Alexander  Muzio : 
and  this  is  the  story  as  told  by  the  legend : 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  253 

"  In  the  year  of  Our  Lord  1527,  during  the  evening  of  the 
loth  of  June,  the  Sunday  of  the  Pentecost,  a  storm  broke 
over  the  district  of  Casalbordino  and  devastated  the  vines, 
the  corn,  and  the  olive-groves.  The  following  morning, 
an  old  septuagenarian  of  Pollutro,  Alexander  Muzio,  propri- 
etor of  a  wheat  field  at  Pinno  del  Lago,  started  on  his  way 
to  visit  it.  His  heart  sank  at  the  sight  of  the  damaged 
crops;  but,  in  his  profound  humility,  he  praised  the  justice 
of  God.  Very  devoted  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  he  was  telling 
his  beads  while  walking,  when,  at  the  end  of  the  valley,  he 
heard  the  bell  ringing  at  the  elevation  of  the  Mass.  He 
immediately  kneeled  down  and  concentrated  all  his  fervor 
for  the  prayer.  But  while  he  prayed  he  saw  himself  sur- 
rounded by  a  brilliancy  which  eclipsed  that  of  the  sun, 
and  in  this  brilliancy  appeared  to  him  the  Mother  of 
Mercy,  robed  in  azure ;  and  she  spoke  to  him  sweetly  :  '  Go 
and  carry  the  news.  Let  a  temple  be  raised  on  this  spot,  and 
I  will  distribute  my  favors  here.  Go  to  thy  field,  and  thou 
wilt  find  thy  wheat  intact.'  She  disappeared  with  her  crown 
of  angels.  And  the  old  man  rose,  went  as  far  as  his  field, 
found  his  wheat  intact.  Then  he  hastened  to  Pollutro,  saw 
the  curate  Mariano  d'  Iddone,  related  to  him  the  prodigy. 
In  a  few  seconds  the  news  had  spread  all  over  the  Casal- 
bordino district.  The  entire  population  ran  to  the  holy 
spot,  saw  the  dry  soil  around  the  tree,  saw  undulate  the 
prosperous  harvest,  recognized  the  miracle,  and  shed  tears 
of  penitence  and  feeling.  Soon  afterwards  the  Vicar  of 
Arabona  laid  the  first  stone  of  a  chapel,  and  the  proxies  for 
the  edification  were  Geronimo  di  Geronimo  and  Giovanni 
Fatalone,  Casalesians.  On  the  altar  they  painted  the  Vir- 
gin, with  the  old  Alexander  prostrated  in  the  act  of  adora- 
tion." 

The  legend  was  simple,  commonplace,  similar  to  a  hun- 


»54  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

dred  others  founded  on  miracle.  Since  that  first  act  of 
mercy,  it  was  in  the  name  of  the  Virgin  that  ships  were 
saved  from  the  tempest,  lands  from  the  hail,  travellers  from 
robbers,  sick  people  from  death.  Placed  amidst  an  un- 
fortunate people,  the  Image  was  an  inexhaustible  source 
of  salvation. 

"  Of  all  the  Madonnas  in  the  world,  ours  is  the  one  who 
does  most  good,"  said  Colas  di  Sciampagne,  kissing  the 
sacred  sheet  before  replacing  it  in  his  bosom.  "  They  say 
that  another  vision  has  been  seen  in  the  kingdom.  But 
ours  is  the  best.  Don't  be  afraid.  She's  worth  all  the 
others ' ' 

His  tone  and  his  attitude  displayed  that  sectarian  fanati- 
cism which  fires  the  blood  of  all  idolaters,  and  which,  at 
times,  in  the  region  of  the  Abruzzi,  impels  populations  to 
ferocious  wars  for  the  supremacy  of  an  idol.  The  old  man, 
like  all  his  brothers  in  belief,  did  not  conceive  the  Divine 
Being  outside  of  the  painted  image ;  it  was  in  the  image 
that  he  saw  and  adored  the  real  presence  of  the  celestial 
personage.  The  Image  upon  the  altar,  for  him,  was  a 
creature  of  flesh  and  bones  ;  she  breathed,  smiled,  winked, 
bowed  her  head,  made  gestures  with  her  hand.  And  every- 
where it  was  the  same  thing  :  all  the  sacred  statues,  in  wood, 
wax,  bronze,  or  silver,  lived  a  real  life  in  their  vile  substance 
or  precious  metal.  When  they  became  old,  when  they 
broke,  or  were  destroyed  in  the  course  of  the  years,  they  did 
not  give  way  to  new  statues  without  giving  savage  signs  of 
their  anger.  One  day  a  fragment  of  a  bust,  become  unrecog- 
nizable and  confounded  with  firewood,  had  splurted  blood 
under  the  axe  and  uttered  threatening  words.  Another  frag- 
ment, planed  and  arranged  among  the  staves  of  a  vat,  had 
manifested  its  supernatural  character  by  causing  the  appari- 
tion in  the  water  of  its  primitive  and  integral  form. 


THE    NEW    LIFE. 


255 


"  Hey,  there  !  "  cried  the  old  man  to  a  pedestrian,  who 
was  painfully  walking  in  the  suffocating  dust  along  the 
curbstone.  "  Hey,  there,  Aligi  !  " 

He  turned  towards  his  guests,  adding  with  commiseration  : 

"  He's  a  good  Christian,  a  man  of  hereabouts.     He's 

going  to  carry  his  vow.     He  is  convalescent.     Do  you  see, 

signora,  how  winded  he  is  ?     Will  you  let  him  ride  on  the 

front  seat  ?  ' ' 

"  Yes,  yes.     Stop,  stop  !  "  said  Hippolyte,  affected. 
The  carriage  stopped. 

"  Run,  Aligi  !  The  gentlefolk  are  kind  to  you.  Come, 
get  up  !  " 

The  good  Christian  approached.  He  was  gasping,  bent 
over  his  stick,  covered  with  dust,  bathed  in  perspiration, 
dazed  by  the  sun.  A  collar  of  reddish  beard  surrounded 
his  chin  from  one  ear  to  the  other,  and  framed  his  face 
dotted  with  freckles ;  locks  of  reddish  hair  emerged  from 
under  his  hat,  sticking  to  the  forehead  and  temples ;  his 
hollow  eyes,  converging  towards  the  base  of  the  nose,  of  no 
precise  color,  recalled  those  of  epileptics.  Gasping  and 
hoarsely,  he  said : 

"  Thanks  !  God  will  reward  you.  May  the  Madonna 
protect  you  !  But  I  can't  ride." 

He  held  in  his  right  hand  an  object  wrapped  in  a  white 
handkerchief. 

"  Is  that  your  offering  ?  "  asked  Colas.     "  Let  us  see." 
The  man  opened  the  corners  of  the  handkerchief,  and 
showed  a  waxen  leg  as  livid  as  the  leg  of  a  cadaver,  and  on 
it  was  painted  a  festering  sore.     The  heat  had  softened  it 
and  made  it  shiny,  as  if  moist  with  sweat. 
"  Don't  you  see  it's  melting  ?  " 
And  Colas  stretched  out  his  hand  to  feel  it. 
"  It's  soft.   If  you  go  on  walking,  it'll  drip  on  to  the  road." 


256  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

Aligi  repeated : 

"  I  can't  ride.     I  made  a  vow  to  go  on  foot." 

And,  not  without  anxiety,  he  examined  the  leg  by  raising 
it  to  the  level  of  his  oblique  eyes. 

On  this  scorching  road,  amid  this  dust,  under  this  great 
strong  light,  nothing  sadder  could  be  imagined  than  this 
emaciated  man  and  that  livid  thing,  repugnant  as  an  ampu- 
tated limb,  which  was  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  a  sore 
on  walls  already  covered  by  silent  and  motionless  effigies 
of  so  many  infirmities  visited  upon  human  flesh  through  all 
the  centuries. 

"Hey,  there!" 

And  the  horses  resumed  their  trot. 

After  the  small  hills  were  left  behind,  the  road  crossed  a 
plain  rich  in  harvests,  almost  ripe.  The  old  man,  with  his 
senile  loquaciousness,  related  the  episodes  of  Aligi 's  mal- 
ady, spoke  of  the  gangrenous  sore  cured  by  the  Virgin's 
ringer.  To  the  right  and  left  of  the  road  the  sweet  ears  of 
corn  surpassed  the  hedges,  suggesting  a  beautiful  overflow- 
ing cup. 

"  There's  the  Sanctuary  !  "  exclaimed  Hippolyte. 

And  she  pointed  to  a  red  brick  edifice  which  rose  in  the 
centre  of  a  great,  encumbered  plain. 

A  few  moments  later,  the  carriage  rejoined  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  was  a  marvellous  and  terrible  spectacle,  unheard  of, 
without  resemblance  to  any  conglomeration  ever  seen  be- 
fore, whether  of  men  or  things ;  a  pell-mell  so  strange,  so 
violent  and  incongruous,  that  it  exceeded  the  most  troubled 
dreams  of  nightmare.  All  the  ugliness  of  the  eternal 
islet,  all  the  shameful  vices,  all  the  stupors ;  all  the  spasms 
and  all  the  deformities  of  the  baptized  flesh,  all  the  tears 
of  repentance,  all  the  mockery  of  the  debauchee ;  insanity, 
cupidity,  cunning,  lewdness,  stupidity,  fear,  mortal  fatigue, 
stony  indifference,  silent  despair ;  sacred  choirs,  demoniacal 
shrieks,  acrobatic  performances,  the  chiming  of  bells,  the 
blasts  of  trumpets,  discordant  cries,  roars,  sighs ;  the  crack- 
ling of  fires  beneath  cauldrons,  heaps  of  fruits  and  sugared 
delicacies,  shop  windows  full  of  utensils,  draperies,  arms, 
jewels,  rosaries ;  the  obscene  contortions  of  dancing  girls, 
the  convulsions  of  epileptics,  the  blows  exchanged  in  angry 
brawls,  the  flight  of  the  hunted  thief  through  the  surging 
mob ;  the  scum  of  the  worst  corruptions  vomited  from  out 
the  filthy  alleys  of  distant  towns  and  cast  upon  an  ignorant 
and  amazed  multitude;  clouds  of  parasites,  like  gadflies 
about  cattle,  falling  upon  the  compact  crowd,  incapable  of 
self-defence ;  every  base  temptation  for  the  brutal  appetite, 
every  fraud,  every  immodesty  was  exhibited  in  broad  day- 
light—a pell-mell  of  everything  was  there,  seething  and 
fermenting  around  the  House  of  the  Virgin. 

This  House  was  a  massive  red  brick  structure,  of  vulgar 
17 


358  THE    TRIUMPH    OP    DEATH. 

architecture,  devoid  of  ornamentation.  Against  the  exterior 
walls,  against  the  pillars  of  the  portal,  peddlers  of  sacred 
objects  had  established  their  tents,  arranged  their  stalls, 
and  sold  their  wares.  Close  by  were  erected  canvas  booths, 
conical  in  shape,  ornamented  with  large  pictures  represent- 
ing bloody  battles  and  cannibal  feasts.  At  the  entrance, 
sinister-looking  men,  of  ignoble  and  equivocal  appearance, 
trumpeted  and  vociferated.  Shameless  women,  with  enor- 
mous legs,  swollen  abdomens,  flabby  breasts,  clad  in  dirty 
tights  and  bespangled  rags,  glorified,  in  extravagant  jargon, 
the  marvels  hidden  by  the  red  curtain  behind  them.  One 
of  these  tattered  ribalds,  who  looked  like  a  monster  engen- 
dered by  a  dwarf  and  a  sow,  gave  kisses  from  her  sticky 
lips  to  a  lascivious  monkey,  while  near  her  a  clown,  cov- 
ered with  powder  and  carmine,  struck  an  ear-splitting  bell 
with  frantic  fury. 

The  processions  arrived  in  long  files,  preceded  by  their 
cross-bearers,  chanting  the  hymn.  The  women  held  each 
other  by  a  corner  of  their  dresses  and  walked  like  ecstatics, 
stupefied,  their  eyes  wide  open  and  fixed.  Those  of  Trigno 
wore  robes  of  scarlet  plush  with  a  thousand  folds,  caught 
up  in  the  middle  of  the  back,  almost  under  the  shoulders, 
and  crossed  at  the  hips  by  a  multicolored  scarf  which 
raised  the  dress,  tightened  it,  and  formed  a  swelling  like  a 
hump.  And  as,  broken  by  fatigue,  they  wended  their  way — 
bent,  their  limbs  staggering,  dragging  shoes  heavy  as  lead, 
they  had  the  appearance  of  strange,  gibbous  animals.  Many 
had  goitres ;  and  their  golden  necklaces  glistened  beneath 
the  sunburnt  swellings. 

Viva  Maria  ! 

Above  the  crowd  appeared  the  soothsayers,  seated  in 
front,  opposite  each  other,  on  a  small,  raised  platform. 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  359 

Their  head-bandage  permitted  a  view  only  of  the  loqua- 
cious mouth,  tireless,  full  of  saliva.  They  spoke  in  a 
sing-song  tone,  raising  and  lowering  their  voices,  their 
nodding  heads  keeping  time  with  the  music.  At  intervals 
they  reswal lowed  the  superabundant  saliva,  with  a  light, 
whistling  sound.  One  of  them  displayed  a  greasy  playing- 
card,  crying,  "  This  is  the  anchor  of  good  hope  !  "  Another, 
from  whose  enormous  mouth  darted  in  and  out,  between 
decayed  teeth,  a  tongue  covered  with  a  yellowish  ecuma, 
leaned  her  whole  person  towards  the  auditors,  having  on 
her  knees  her  large  varicose  hands  and  in  the  hollow  of  her 
lap  a  heap  of  copper  coins.  The  auditors,  very  attentive, 
did  not  lose  a  word,  did  not  wink,  did  not  make  a  single 
gesture.  But,  from  time  to  time,  they  moistened  their 
parched  lips  with  their  tongues. 

Viva  Maria  I 

New  bands  of  pilgrims  arrived,  passed,  disappeared. 
Here  and  there,  in  the  shadow  of  the  booths,  under  big 
blue  parasols,  or  even  in  the  sun,  old  women,  broken  by 
fatigue,  lay  on  the  dry  grass,  sleeping,  their  bodies  bent 
forward,  their  faces  between  their  hands.  Others,  seated 
in  a  ring,  their  legs  wide  apart,  painfully  and  silently 
chewing  carrots  and  bread,  caring  for  naught,  indifferent  to 
the  surrounding  tumult ;  and  one  saw  the  too  large  mouth- 
fuls  pass  with  effort  down  their  gullets  as  yellow  and 
wrinkled  as  the  membrane  of  a  tortoise.  Several  were  cov- 
ered with  sores,  scabs  or  scars,  without  teeth,  without  eye- 
lashes, without  hair;  they  did  not  sleep,  did  not  eat;  they 
lay  motionless  and  resigned,  as  if  they  awaited  death ;  and 
upon  their  poor  carcasses  whirled  a  cloud  of  thick  and 
eager  flies  as  over  carrion  in  a  ditch. 

But  in  the  booths,  beneath  the  tents  heated  by  the  mid- 


260  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

day  sun,  around  the  posts  driven  in  the  earth  and  orna- 
mented with  branches,  was  exercised  the  voracity  of  those 
who  had  laboriously  scraped  together  until  this  day  a  few 
savings  so  as  to  accomplish  the  sacred  vow,  and  also  to  sat- 
isfy an  enormous  desire  to  indulge  in  the  feast,  long  anti- 
cipated during  the  meagre  meals  and  rude  toil.  One  saw 
their  faces  bent  over  their  porringers,  the  movements  of 
their  grinding  jaws,  the  gestures  of  their  hands  which  rend, 
all  their  brutish  actions  in  a  desperate  struggle  with  the 
unaccustomed  aliments.  Large  saucepans  full  of  a  violet- 
colored  mass  were  smoking  in  circular  holes  in  the  ground, 
transformed  into  furnaces;  and  the  appetizing  vapors 
spread  all  around.  One  young  girl,  lank  and  greenish  as  a 
locust,  offered  long  rows  of  cheese,  shaped  like  little 
horses,  birds,  or  flowers.  A  man  who  had  a  face  as  smooth 
and  soft  as  a  woman's,  with  gold  rings  in  his  ears,  with 
hands  and  arms  colored  by  aniline  like  dyers',  offered  for 
sale  sorbets  which  looked  like  poison. 

Viva  Maria  ! 

New  bands  arrived,  passed  by.  The  mob  surged  about 
the  portal,  unable  to  penetrate  into  the  church,  already 
invaded  and  jammed.  Jugglers,  sharpers,  sharks,  game- 
sters, thieves,  charlatans  of  all  kinds,  called  them,  misled 
them,  cajoled  them.  This  brotherhood  of  plunder  scented 
its  prey  from  afar,  struck  it  like  a  thunderbolt,  never 
missed  its  aim.  They  allured  the  simpleton  in  a  thousand 
ways,  raising  in  him  the  hope  of  rapid  and  sure  gains ;  with 
infinite  artifice,  they  persuaded  him  to  take  chances — they 
excited  in  him  an  almost  feverish  cupidity.  Then,  when 
he  had  lost  all  prudence  and  all  clearsightedness,  they 
robbed  him  of  his  last  penny,  merciless,  by  the  easiest  and 
quickest  frauds ;  and  they  left  him  stupefied  and  miserable, 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  261 

laughing  in  his  face  and  sneaking  away.  But  the  example 
did  not  prevent  the  others  from  falling  into  the  trap. 
Each,  deeming  himself  more  clever  and  less  gullible, 
offered  to  avenge  his  ridiculed  comrade,  and  plunged  furi- 
ously to  his  ruin.  Incalculable  privations,  supported  with- 
out respite  in  order  to  make  a  little  money,  amounting  to  the 
savings  of  an  entire  year  scraped  together  penny  by  penny 
from  the  vital  necessities — those  inexpressible  privations 
which  make  the  avarice  of  the  countryman  as  sordid  and  as 
greedy  as  that  of  mendicants — were  all  revealed  in  the 
trembling,  callous  hand  which  drew  the  money  from  the 
bottom  of  the  pocket  to  expose  it  to  chance. 

Viva  Maria  ! 

New  bands  arrived,  passed  by.  A  constantly  renewed 
torrent  persisted  in  cleaving  the  confused  and  surging  mob ; 
a  cadence,  always  the  same,  rose  above  the  medley  of  all 
the  acclamations.  Gradually,  against  this  rumbling  back- 
ground of  discordant  sounds,  the  ear  no  longer  discerned 
anything  but  the  distinct  name  of  Mary.  The  hymn 
triumphed  over  the  uproar.  The  continuous  and  unchained 
tide  battered  the  walls  of  the  Sanctuary  heated  by  the  sun. 

Viva  Maria  ! 
Viva  Maria  I 

For  a  few  minutes  longer  George  and  Hippolyte,  dis- 
mayed, afflicted,  contemplated  this  formidable  crowd,  from 
which  arose  a  nauseating  stench,  from  which  emerged  here 
and  there  the  painted  faces  of  mimes  and  the  hooded  faces 
of  the  fortune-tellers.  Disgust  arose  in  their  throats,  im- 
pelled them  to  flee ;  and  yet  the  attraction  of  this  human 
spectacle  was  stronger,  retained  them  in  this  heaped-up 
horde,  led  them  to  the  spots  where  the  worst  misery  was 


362  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

exhibited,  where  the  worst  excesses  of  cruelty,  ignorance, 
and  fraud  were  revealed,  where  voices  howled  or  tears 
streamed. 

"  Let  us  get  nearer  the  church,"  said  Hippolyte,  who, 
forgetting  herself,  seemed  to  be  invaded  by  the  flame  of 
insanity  diffused  by  the  passing  bands,  whose  wild  fanati- 
cism seemed  to  increase  in  fury  as  the  sun  beat  down  more 
furiously  on  their  heads. 

"  Are  you  not  tired  ?  "  asked  George,  taking  her  hands. 
"  If  you  like,  we'll  go  away.  We'll  look  for  some  place 
where  we  can  rest.  I'm  afraid  it  may  hurt  you.  We  will 
go  if  you  like." 

"  No,  no;  I  am  strong.  I  can  stand  it.  Let  us  get 
nearer.  Let  us  enter  the  church.  You  see,  everybody  is 
going  there.  Do  you  hear  how  they  are  shouting  ?  "  She 
was  visibly  suffering.  Her  mouth  was  convulsed,  the  muscles 
of  her  face  contracted ;  and  her  hand  constantly  tormented 
George's  arm.  But  her  gaze  never  left  the  door  of  the  Sanc- 
tuary, nor  that  veil  of  bluish  smoke  through  which,  by  turns, 
scintillated  and  disappeared  the  little  flames  of  the  wax 
tapers. 

"  Do  you  hear  how  they  are  shouting  ?  " 

She  staggered.  The  cries  resembled  those  of  a  massacre, 
as  if  men  and  women  were  cutting  each  other's  throats,  were 
struggling  in  oceans  of  blood. 

Colas  said : 

"  They  are  asking  favors." 

The  old  man  had  not  left  his  guests  for  an  instant ;  he 
had  taken  a  thousand  pains  to  open  a  passage  for  them  in 
the  crowd,  to  make  a  little  space  about  them. 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  there  ?  "  he  asked. 

Hippolyte  made  up  her  mind. 

"  Yes,  let  us  go." 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  363 

Colas  preceded  them,  pushing  right  and  left  with  his 
elbows  in  order  to  get  near  the  portals.  Hippolyte  no 
longer  touched  the  ground,  almost  carried  in  the  arms  of 
George,  who  summoned  all  his  strength  in  order  to  support 
her  and  himself.  A  female  beggar  pursued  them,  kept  at 
their  heels,  pleading  for  charity  in  a  lamentable  tone, 
stretching  out  her  hand,  at  times  advancing  it  so  far  as  to 
touch  them.  And  they  saw  nothing  but  this  senile  hand, 
deformed  by  large  knots  at  the  joints,  of  a  bluish  yellow, 
with  long  violet-hued  nails,  with  the  skin  peeling  between 
the  fingers — such  a  hand  as  might  belong  to  a  sick  and 
decrepit  monkey. 

Finally  they  arrived  at  the  portal ;  and  they  leaned  back 
against  one  of  the  pillars,  near  the  stand  of  a  vender  of 
rosaries. 

The  processions,  while  waiting  their  turn  to  enter, 
marched  around  the  church;  they  turned,  turned  without 
cease — heads  uncovered,  behind  the  cross-bearers,  without 
ever  interrupting  their  chant.  Men  and  women  carried  a 
stick  surmounted  either  with  a  cross  or  a  bunch  of  flowers, 
and  leaned  upon  it  with  all  the  weight  of  their  fatigue. 
Their  brows  dripped  with  perspiration ;  streams  of  perspira- 
tion rolled  down  their  cheeks,  soaked  their  clothes.  The  men 
had  their  shirts  open  at  their  breasts,  the  neck  bare,  the 
arms  bare ;  and  on  their  hands,  on  their  wrists,  on  the  backs 
of  their  arms,  on  their  breasts,  the  skin  was  checkered  with 
marks  tattooed  in  indigo,  in  commemoration  of  sanctuaries 
visited,  of  favors  received,  of  vows  accomplished.  Every 
deformity  of  muscle  or  bone,  every  variety  of  physical  ugli- 
ness, every  indelible  imprint  left  by  manual  toil,  intem- 
perateness,  and  disease  :  heads  pointed  and  flat,  bald  or 
woolly,  covered  with  scars  or  excrescences;  eyes  white  and 
opaque  as  globes  of  butter-milk,  eyes  glaucous  and  sad  like 


264  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

those  of  large,  lonely  frogs ;  flat  noses  as  if  crushed  by  the 
blow  of  a  fist,  or  hooked  like  the  beaks  of  vultures,  or  long 
and  fat  like  trunks,  or  almost  destroyed  by  eating  ulcers ; 
cheeks  red-veined  like  the  bunches  of  the  vine  in  Autumn, 
or  yellowish  and  wrinkled  like  the  belly  of  a  ruminant,  or 
bristling  with  reddish  hairs  like  the  spears  of  maize ; 
mouths  as  thin  as  the  gash  of  a  razor,  or  wide  open  and 
flabby  like  over-ripe  figs,  or  shrunken  and  shrivelled  like 
dry  leaves,  or  furnished  with  teeth  as  formidable  as  those 
of  a  wild  boar;  hare-lips,  goitres,  erysipelas,  scrofulas,  pus- 
tules— all  the  horrors  of  the  human  flesh  passed,  in  the 
light  of  the  sun,  before  the  House  of  the  Virgin. 

Viva  Maria  ! 

Each  band  had  its  cross-bearer  and  its  chief.  The  leader 
was  a  strong-limbed,  violent  man,  who  incessantly  stimu- 
lated the  faithful  by  the  yells  and  actions  of  a  maniac, 
striking  the  laggards  on  their  backs,  dragging  the  exhausted 
old  men,  swearing  at  the  women  who  interrupted  the  hymn 
to  take  breath.  An  olive-colored  giant,  whose  eyes  glit- 
tered beneath  a  great  shock  of  black  hair,  dragged  along 
three  women  by  the  three  cords  of  three  halters.  Another 
woman  marched  in  front,  naked  in  a  sack  from  which  only 
her  head  and  arms  appeared.  Another,  long  and  ema- 
ciated, with  a  livid  face  and  whitish  eyes,  marched  along 
like  a  somnambulist,  without  chanting,  without  ever  turn- 
ing, displaying  on  her  breast  a  red  sash  resembling  the 
bloody  bandage  of  a  mortal  wound ;  and  every  moment  she 
tottered,  as  if  her  limbs  had  no  longer  sufficient  strength 
to  support  her,  and  she  were  about  to  fall  to  rise  no  more. 
Another,  wild  as  a  beast  of  prey,  a  true  rustic  Fury,  with 
a  blood-colored  mantle  wound  around  her  bony  shanks, 
with  glittering  embroideries  on  her  bosom,  like  scales  on 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  265 

a  fish,  brandished  a  black  crucifix  to  guide  and  excite  her 
detachment.  Another  wore  on  her  head  a  cradle  covered 
with  a  sombre  cloth,  like  Liberata  on  the  funereal  night. 

Viva  Maria  ! 

They  turned,  turned  without  cease;  hastening  their  steps, 
raising  their  voices,  exciting  themselves  more  and  more  to 
yell  and  gesticulate  like  demons.      Virgins,  almost  bald  at 
the  top  of  their  heads,  their  scant  hair  flowing  loose  and 
almost  impregnated  with  olive-oil,  stupid  as  sheep,   ad- 
vanced  in  files,  each    holding   her  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  her  companion,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  full  of 
repentance  :  miserable  creatures  whose  wombs  were  destined 
to  perpetuate  in  the  baptized  flesh,  without  enjoyment,  the 
instincts  and  sadness  of  the  primeval  beast.     In  a  sort  of 
deep  coffin  carried  by  four  men  lay  a  paralytic,  suffocating 
from  obesity,  with  dangling  hands,  twisted  and  knotted  like 
roots  by  a  frightful  case  of  gout.     A  continual  trembling 
shook  his  hands ;  an  abundant  sweat  dropped  from  his  brow 
and  bald  head,  streaming  down  his  big  face,  colored  like  a 
faded  rose,  covered  with  fine  network  like  the  spleen  of  an 
ox.    And  he  wore  a  number  of  scapularies  suspended  from  his 
neck,  with  the  picture  of  the  Image  spread  over  his  abdomen. 
He  wheezed  and  lamented  as  if  already  seized  by  the  ter- 
rors of  the  impending  death-agony ;  round  about  him  was 
an  unbearable  stench,  as  of  putrefying  flesh ;  he  exhaled 
from  every  pore  the  atrocious  torments  which  the  last  palpi- 
tations of  life  caused  him.     And  yet  he  did  not  wish  to 
die,  and  so  as  not  to  die  he  had  himself  carried  in  a  coffin 
to  the  feet  of  the  Mother.      Not  far  from  him,  other  vigor- 
ous men,  experienced  in  carrying  massive  statues  on  high 
standards  at  holy  festivals,  dragged  a  lunatic  by  the  arms ; 
and  the  lunatic  struggled  in    their  grasp,  shrieking,  his 


266  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

clothes  in  tatters,  foaming  at  the  mouth,  his  eyes  starting 
from  their  sockets,  the  veins  of  his  neck  swollen,  his 
hair  dishevelled,  as  black  in  the  face  as  a  hanged  man. 
Aligi  also  passed,  the  man  elect  by  grace,  paler  now  than 
his  waxen  limb.  And  once  more  they  all  went  by  again  in 
their  endless  turning  :  the  three  women  led  by  halters  passed ; 
the  Fury  with  the  black  crucifix  passed ;  and  passed  also  the 
taciturn  woman  with  the  bloody  scarf ;  and  she  carrying  the 
cradle  on  her  head ;  and  she  dressed  in  a  sack,  imprisoned 
in  her  mortification,  bathed  in  silent  tears  which  gushed 
from  beneath  her  lowered  eyelids,  a  figure  of  the  distant 
ages,  isolated  in  the  crowd,  as  if  enveloped  in  a  breath  of 
ancient  penitential  rigor,  and  resurrecting  in  George's  soul 
the  great  and  spotless  Clementine  basilica,  whose  rude, 
primitive  crypt  reminded  him  of  the  Christians  of  the 
ninth  century,  the  time  of  Ludovic  II. 

Viva  Maria  ! 

They  turned  and  turned,  without  ever  stopping,  hastening 
their  steps,  raising  their  voices,  almost  crazed  by  the  sun 
which  beat  upon  their  heads,  excited  by  the  yells  of  the 
fanatics  and  by  the  acclamations  heard  within  the  church 
as  they  passed  before  the  door,  carried  away  by  a  terrific 
frenzy  which  impelled  them  to  sanguinary  sacrifices,  to  the 
tortures  of  the  flesh,  to  the  most  inhuman  tests.  They 
turned,  turned,  impatient  to  enter,  impatient  to  prostrate 
themselves  on  the  sacred  stone,  to  fill  with  their  tears  the 
furrows  worn  there  by  thousands  upon  thousands  of  knees. 
They  turned,  turned,  increasing  in  number,  pushing,  jost- 
ling, with  such  an  accordance  of  fury  that  they  appeared  no 
longer  a  conglomeration  of  individuals,  but  a  compact 
mass,  some  kind  of  blind  matter  projected  by  a  vertigi- 
nous power. 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  267 

Viva  Maria  ! 
Viva  Maria  ! 

In  the  mass,  a  young  man  suddenly  fell  down,  struck  by 
an  attack  of  epilepsy.  His  neighbors  surrounded  him,  car- 
ried him  away  from  the  whirlpool.  Others,  numerous, 
left  the  mob  which  occupied  the  esplanade,  and  ran  to  see 
the  sight. 

"What  has  happened?"  asked  Hippolyte,  growing 
paler,  with  an  extraordinary  change  in  her  face  and 
voice. 

"  Nothing,  nothing — a  sunstroke,"  replied  George,  tak- 
ing her  by  the  arm,  and  trying  to  lead  her  away. 

But  Hippolyte  had  understood.  She  had  seen  two  men 
forcibly  open  the  jaws  of  the  epileptic,  and  insert  a  key 
in  his  mouth,  doubtless  to  prevent  his  biting  his  tongue. 
And,  at  the  thought,  she  felt  in  her  own  teeth  that  horrible 
grating,  and  an  instinctive  shudder  shook  her  to  the  inner- 
most depths  of  her  being,  there  where  the  "  sacred  evil  " 
slept  with  a  possibility  of  awakening. 

Colas  di  Sciampagne  said  : 

"  It  is  someone  who  has  the  Saint  Donat  malady. 
Don't  be  afraid." 

"  Let  us  go — let  us  go  away  !  "  insisted  George,  uneasy, 
dismayed,  trying  to  lead  his  companion  elsewhere. 

"  What  if  she  were  similarly  taken,  all  at  once,"  he 
thought.  "  What  if  the  disease  attacked  her  here,  in  the 
midst  of  this  crowd  ?  ' ' 

A  chill  ran  through  him.  He  recalled  the  letters  dated 
from  Caronno,  those  letters  in  which  she  had  made  the 
frightful  revelation  in  hopeless  terms.  And  again,  as  then, 
he  imagined :  "  Her  hands,  pallid  and  shrivelled,  and  be- 
tween the  fingers  the  torn-out  curl  of  hair." 

"  Let  us  go  away  !     Do  you  want  to  enter  the  church  ?  " 


268  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

She  remained  silent,  stupefied,  as  if  by  a  blow  on  the 
head. 

"Shall  we  enter?"  repeated  George,  shaking  her,  and 
attempting  to  dissimulate  his  own  anxiety. 

He  would  have  liked  to  ask,  also :  "Of  what  are  you 
thinking  ?  "  But  he  did  not  dare.  He  saw  in  Hippolyte's 
eyes  such  profound  sadness  that  he  felt  his  heart  oppressed 
and  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat.  Then,  the  suspi- 
cion that  this  silence  and  stupor  might  be  the  precursors  of 
an  imminent  attack  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  panicky  terror. 

Without  reflection,  he  stammered  : 

"  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

These  anxious  words,  which  were  a  confession  of  his 
suspicion,  which  revealed  his  secret  fear,  increased  still 
more  the  trouble  of  the  two  lovers. 

"  No,  no,"  she  said,  with  a  visible  shudder,  benumbed 
with  horror,  and  pressed  close  to  George,  that  he  might 
defend  her  from  the  peril. 

Hemmed  in  by  the  mob,  dismayed,  disgusted,  miserable 
like  the  others,  as  needful  of  pity  and  help  as  the  rest, 
crushed  like  the  others  beneath  the  weight  of  their  mortal 
flesh,  both,  for  a  moment,  felt  in  veritable  communion  with 
the  multitude  in  the  midst  of  which  they  trembled  and 
suffered ;  both,  for  a  moment,  forgot  in  the  immensity  of 
human  sorrow  the  limits  of  their  souls. 

It  was  Hippolyte  who  was  the  first  to  turn  towards  the 
church,  towards  the  great  portal,  towards  that  veil  of  bluish 
smoke  through  which,  by  turns,  scintillated  and  disappeared 
the  little  flames  of  the  wax  tapers. 

"  Let  us  go  in,"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice,  without 
leaving  George's  side. 

Colas  remarked  that  it  was  impossible  to  enter  by  the 
*nain  entrance. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  269 

"  But,"  he  added,  "  I  know  another  door — follow  me." 

With  great  difficulty  they  forced  a  passage.  And  yet,  a 
false  energy  sustained  them ;  a  blind  obstinacy  impelled 
them  on,  almost  like  that  displayed  by  the  fanatics  in  their 
endless  turning.  They  had  caught  the  contagion.  From  now 
on  George  no  longer  felt  he  was  master  of  himself.  His 
nerves  dominated  him,  imposed  on  him  the  disorder  and 
excess  of  their  sensations. 

"Follow  me!"  repeated  the  old  man,  stemming  the 
torrent  by  sheer  strength  of  his  elbows,  and  struggling  fiercely 
to  protect  his  guests  against  the  crush. 

They  entered  by  a  side  door  into  a  sort  of  sacristy,  from 
which  could  be  seen,  through  a  bluish  smoke,  the  walls 
entirely  covered  by  votive  offerings  of  wax  suspended  there 
in  proof  of  the  miracles  accomplished  by  the  Virgin. 
Limbs,  arms,  hands,  feet,  breasts,  shapeless  pieces  repre- 
senting tumors,  gangrenes,  and  ulcers,  horrid  representa- 
tions of  monstrous  maladies,  pictures  of  violet  and  crimson 
sores  which  cried  out  from  the  pallor  of  the  wax — all  these 
objects,  motionless  on  the  four  high  walls,  had  a  mortuary 
appearance,  horrifying  and  frightful,  evoking  the  image  of 
a  charnel-house  where  are  piled  up  all  the  limbs  amputated 
in  a  hospital.  Heaps  of  human  bodies  encumbered  the 
pavement,  inert ;  and  in  the  heap  appeared  livid  faces, 
bleeding  mouths,  dusty  faces,  bald  heads,  white  hair. 
They  were  nearly  all  old  people,  prostrated  by  a  spasm  in 
front  of  the  altar,  carried  in  anus,  and  heaped  in  piles 
like  cadavers  in  time  of  a  pest.  Another  old  man  arrived 
from  the  church,  carried  in  the  arms  of  two  men  who  were 
sobbing :  the  motion  caused  his  head  to  hang  now  on 
his  chest,  now  on  his  shoulder;  drops  of  blood  rartied 
on  his  shirt  front  from  lacerations  of  his  nose,  lips, 
and  chin.  Behind  him  continued  the  hopeless  cries  of 


270  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

anguish,  imploring  the  favor  which  this  old  man  had  not 
obtained. 

"Madonna!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 

It  was  an  unheard-of  clamor,  more  atrocious  than  the 
yells  of  a  man  burnt  alive  without  hope  of  salvation;  more 
terrible  than  the  cry  of  shipwrecked  sailors  condemned  to  a 
certain  death  upon  the  nocturnal  sea. 

' '  Madonna  !     Madonna  !     Madonna  ! ' ' 

A  thousand  arms  were  stretched  towards  the  altar  with 
savage  frenzy.  The  women  dragged  themselves  along  on 
their  knees,  sobbing,  tearing  out  their  hair,  striking  their 
hips,  bruising  their  foreheads  on  the  stones,  twisting  as  if 
in  convulsions  or  possessed.  Many,  on  all  fours,  sustain- 
ing the  entire  weight  of  their  horizontal  bodies  on  their 
elbows  and  naked  toes,  advanced  gradually  towards  the 
altar.  They  crawled  along  like  reptiles,  they  gathered 
themselves  together,  springing  on  their  toes,  with  progres- 
sive propulsions,  and  beneath  their  petticoats  could  be 
seen  their  callous  yellow  soles,  the  projecting  and  pointed 
ankle-bones  of  their  feet.  At  times  the  hands  seconded  the 
efforts  of  the  elbows,  trembling  around  the  mouth  which 
kissed  the  dust,  near  the  tongue  which  traced  in  this  dust 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  with  a  saliva  mixed  with  blood.  And 
the  crawling  bodies  passed  over  these  bloody  tracings  with- 
out effacing  them,  whilst,  before  each  head,  a  man  erect 
struck  the  pavement  with  the  tip  of  a  stick  in  order  to  indi- 
cate the  right  way  to  the  altar. 

"Madonna!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 

Kinswomen,  dragging  themselves  along  on  their  knees  on 
each  side  of  the  furrow,  superintended  the  votive  agony. 
From  time  to  time  they  leaned  forward  to  encourage  their 
unfortunate  sisters.  When  the  latter  seemed  about  to  faint, 
they  went  to  their  relief,  supported  them  under  the  arms, 


TTHE  NEW  LIFE.  271 

or  fanned  their  heads  with  a  cloth.  While  doing  this  they 
shed  hot  tears ;  and  wept  even  more  copiously  when  they 
assisted  the  old  men  or  adolescents,  acquitting  themselves 
of  the  same  vows.  For  there  were  not  only  women,  but 
also  old  men,  adults,  adolescents,  who,  to  approach  the  altar, 
to  be  worthy  to  lift  their  eyes  towards  the  Image,  subjected 
themselves  to  this  torment.  Each  placed  his  tongue  on 
the  spot  where  another  had  already  left  a  wet  trace ;  each 
struck  his  forehead  or  his  chin  on  the  spot  where  another 
had  already  left  a  shred  of  his  skin,  a  drop  of  his  blood,  of 
his  sweat,  and  of  his  tears.  Suddenly  a  long  ray  of  sun- 
light penetrated  the  large  portal  into  the  interstices  of  the 
crowd,  illuminating  the  soles  of  the  shrunken  feet,  calloused 
by  the  arid  soil  or  mountainous  rocks,  so  deformed  that  they 
appeared  less  the  feet  of  human  beings  than  the  feet  of  beasts  ; 
illuminating  bald  and  hairy  heads,  white  with  old  age,  or 
light  brown  or  black,  supported  by  bull-like  necks  which 
swelled  in  the  effort,  or  shaking  and  weak  like  the  greenish 
head  of  an  old  turtle,  out  of  his  shell,  or  like  a  disinterred 
skull  still  bearing  a  few  grayish  locks  and  a  few  shreds  of 
reddish  skin. 

Now  and  then,  over  this  swarm  of  reptiles,  a  blue  wave 
of  incense  spread  slowly,  veiling  for  a  moment  this  humility, 
this  hope,  and  this  bodily  pain,  as  if  in  compassion.  New 
patients  forced  a  passage,  presented  themselves  at  the  altar 
to  solicit  the  miracle ;  and  their  shadows  and  their  voices 
covered  the  prostrate  bodies  that  seemed  as  if  they  would 
never  be  able  to  rise. 

"Madonna!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 

The  mothers  exposed  their  dried-up  breasts,  which  they 
showed  to  the  Virgin,  imploring  the  blessing  of  milk,  while 
behind  them  their  kinswomen  carried  the  emaciated  chil- 
dren, almost  dying,  who  uttered  wailing  cries.  Wives 


272  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

prayed  for  the  fecundity  of  their  sterile  womb,  and  gave  as 
offerings  their  clothes  and  marriage  jewels. 

"  Holy  Virgin,  have  mercy  on  me,  in  the  name  of  the 
Son  whom  thou  dost  bear  in  thine  arms  !  " 

They  prayed  at  first  in  low  tones,  tearfully  reciting  their 
woes,  as  if  they  were  having  a  secret  conversation  with  the 
Image,  as  if  the  Image  were  bending  forward  from  above 
to  listen  to  their  lamentations.  Then,  gradually,  they 
exalted  themselves  almost  to  the  point  of  fury,  insanity, 
as  if  they  wished,  by  their  acclamations  and  insane  gestures, 
to  compel  consent  to  the  prodigy.  They  summoned  all 
their  energy  to  utter  a  superhuman  shriek  capable  of 
reaching  the  very  bottom  of  the  Virgin's  heart. 

"  Have  mercy  on  us  !     Have  mercy  on  us  !  " 

And  they  stopped,  staring  anxiously,  with  their  dilated 
and  fixed  eyes,  in  the  hope  of  surprising,  finally,  a  sign 
upon  the  visage  of  the  celestial  person  who  scintillated  in 
a  reflection  of  jewels  between  the  columns  of  the  inacces- 
sible altar. 

Another  wave  of  fanatics  arrived,  took  their  places, 
spread  out  along  the  entire  length  of  the  railing.  Tumul- 
tuous cries  and  violent  gestures  alternated  with  their  offer- 
ings. Inside  the  railing  which  intercepted  the  access  to 
the  large  altar,  priests  received  in  their  fat  and  white 
hands  the  moneys  and  trinkets.  In  the  act  of  tendering  the 
right  or  left  hand,  on  either  side,  they  balanced  themselves 
like  caged  beasts  in  a  menagerie.  Behind  them,  the  clerks 
held  large  metal  plates  on  which  the  offerings  jinglingly 
accumulated.  On  one  side,  near  the  door  of  the  sacristy, 
other  priests  were  stooping  over  a  table  :  they  were  count- 
ing the  money  and  examining  the  jewels,  while  one  of 
them,  bony  and  brownish,  made  entries  with  a  quill  pen  in 
a  large  ledger.  They  each  performed  this  task  in  turn,  and 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  273 

then  left  it  to  officiate.  From  time  to  time  the  bell 
sounded,  and  the  censer  was  elevated  amidst  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  Long,  bluish  waves  rolled  around  the  tonsured  heads 
and  dispersed  on  the  other  side  of  the  railing.  The  sacred 
perfume  mingled  with  the  human  stench. 

"  Ora  pro  noiis,  sane  (a  Dei  Genitrix     .     .     . 
Ut  digni  efficiamur  promissionibus  Christi" 

At  times,  during  unexpected  and  terrible  pauses  like 
those  of  a  hurricane,  when  the  crowd  was  oppressed  by  the 
anguish  of  expectation,  one  could  distinctly  hear  the  Latin 
words  : 

"  Concede  nos  famulos  tuos." 

Beneath  the  large  portal  advanced  with  pomp  a  married 
couple,  escorted  by  all  their  relatives  in  a  blaze  of  gold, 
in  a  rustling  of  silk.  The  spouse,  young  and  vigorous,  had 
a  head  like  a  barbarian  queen,  with  thick  and  joining  eye- 
brows, wavy  and  shining  black  hair,  a  fleshy  and  blood-red 
mouth,  in  which  the  incisive,  irregular  teeth  raised  the 
upper  lip,  shaded  with  a  virile  shadow.  A  necklace  of  large 
gold  beads  was  wound  thrice  around  her  neck ;  large  gold 
hoops  embellished  with  filigree  work  hung  from  her  ears, 
on  her  cheeks ;  a  corsage  scintillating  like  a  coat  of  mail 
confined  her  bosom.  She  marched  gravely,  entirely  ab- 
sorbed in  her  thoughts,  scarcely  winking  her  eyelids, 
holding  her  ringed  hand  on  her  husband's  shoulder. 
The  husband  was  also  young,  of  medium  stature,  almost 
beardless,  very  pale  and  with  an  expression  of  profound 
sadness,  as  if  devoured  by  a  sad  secret.  The  appearance 
of  both  seemed  to  indicate  the  fatality  of  a  primitive 
mystery. 

18 


274  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Whispers  spread  around  their  passage.  They  themselves 
neither  spoke  nor  turned  their  heads,  followed  by  their 
parents,  men  and  women,  entwined  in  a  chain  by  their 
arms,  as  if  about  to  perform  an  ancient  dance.  "  What 
vow  were  they  accomplishing  ?  What  favors  were  they 
asking  ?" 

The  news  spread  in  a  low  tone  from  mouth  to  mouth  :  they 
asked  for  the  young  man  a  return  of  genital  virility,  of 
which  some  evil  influence  doubtless  had  deprived  him. 
The  virginity  of  his  spouse  still  remained  intact;  the 
conjugal  couch  was  still  immaculate. 

When  they  were  near  to  the  railing  they  both  raised 
their  eyes  toward  the  Image  silently ;  and  they  remained  a 
few  moments  motionless,  absorbed  in  the  same  mute  sup- 
plication. But,  behind  them,  the  two  mothers  extended 
their  arms,  agitated  their  dried  and  wrinkled  hands,  which 
on  the  marriage  day  had  distributed  in  vain  the  augural 
grain.  They  stretched  out  their  arms  and  cried  : 

"Madonna!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 

With  slow  gestures,  the  wife  removed  the  rings  from  her 
fingers  and  offered  them.  Then  she  took  out  the  heavy 
golden  hoops.  Then  she  took  off  her  hereditary  necklace. 
All  this  wealth  she  offered  at  the  altar. 

"  Take  it,  blessed  Virgin  !  Take  it,  most  Holy  Mary  of 
Miracles  !  "  cried  the  mothers,  with  voices  already  rendered 
hoarse  by  their  cries,  with  demonstrations  redoubled  by 
fervor,  each  glancing  at  the  other  sidewise  to  see  that  her 
neighbor  was  not  surpassing  her  in  ardor  in  the  eyes  of 
the  attentive  crowd. 

"  Take  it !     Take  it !  " 

They  saw  the  gold  fall,  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  im- 
passive priest ;  then  they  heard  the  precious  metal  jingle  on 
the  clerk's  plate,  coin  acquired  by  dint  of  the  persistent  toil 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  375 

of  several  generations,  preserved  for  years  and  years  at  the 
bottom  of  the  strong  box,  and  brought  to  light  again  at  every 
new  wedding-day.  They  beheld  fall  the  family  wealth, 
fall,  disappear  forever.  The  immensity  of  the  sacrifice 
plunged  them  into  despair,  and  their  distress  extended  to 
their  kinsmen.  The  relatives  ended  by  uttering  piercing 
shrieks  altogether.  The  young  man  alone  remained  silent, 
keeping  constantly  fixed  on  the  Image  his  eyes,  from  which 
gushed  two  streams  of  silent  tears. 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  during  which  one  could  hear  the 
Latin  words  of  the  service  and  the  cadence  chanted  by  the 
processions  which  were  still  turning  around  the  church. 
Then  the  couple  resumed  their  first  position,  and,  their  eyes 
still  fixed  on  the  Image,  slowly  fell  back. 

A  new  band,  yelling  furiously,  now  interposed  between 
them  and  the  railing.  For  a  few  seconds  the  young  woman 
towered  a  head  above  the  tumult,  despoiled  now  of  all  her 
bridal  jewelry,  but  more  beautiful  and  more  vigorous,  envel- 
oped in  a  sort  of  Dionysiac  mystery,  exhaling  over  this 
barbaric  multitude  a  breath  as  of  very  ancient  life;  and 
she  disappeared,  never  to  be  forgotten.  Exalted  far  beyond 
the  time  and  the  reality,  George's  gaze  followed  her  until 
she  disappeared.  His  soul  lived  in  the  horror  of  an  un- 
known world ;  in  the  presence  of  a  nameless  people,  associ- 
ated with  rites  of  very  obscure  origin.  The  faces  of  men 
and  women  appeared  to  him  as  if  in  a  delirious  vision, 
marked  with  the  stamp  of  a  humanity  other  than  his  own, 
and  formed  of  a  different  substance;  and  the  looks,  the 
motions,  and  the  voices,  and  all  the  perceptible  signs,  struck 
him  with  stupor,  as  if  they  had  had  no  analogy  with  the 
habitual  human  expressions  which  he  had  known  up  to  then. 
Certain  figures  exercised  over  him  a  sudden  magnetic 
attraction.  He  followed  them  in  the  crowd,  dragging  Hip- 


276  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

polyte  with  him;  he  gazed  after  them  on  tiptoe;  he 
watched  all  their  actions;  he  felt  their  cries  reverberate  in 
his  own  heart;  he  felt  himself  invaded  by  the  same  mad- 
ness; he  himself  felt  a  brutal  desire  to  shout  and  gesticu- 
late. 

From  time  to  time  Hippolyte  and  he  glanced  at  each 
other;  they  saw  each  other  pale,  convulsed,  aghast,  ex- 
hausted. But  neither  one  proposed  to  leave  the  terrible 
place,  as  if  they  lacked  the  strength  to  do  so.  Jostled  by 
the  mob,  almost  carried  away  at  times,  they  wandered  here 
and  there  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  holding  hands  or  arms, 
while  the  old  man  made  continuous  efforts  to  help  and  pro- 
tect them.  A  procession,  coming  up,  forced  them  against 
the  railing.  During  several  minutes  they  remained  there, 
prisoners,  closed  in  on  all  sides,  enveloped  by  the  smoke  of 
the  incense,  deafened  by  the  cries,  suffocated  by  the  heat, 
in  the  thickest  part  of  the  gesticulating  and  insanity. 

"Madonna!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 

It  was  the  reptile  women,  who,  arrived  at  last,  rose  to  their 
feet.  One  among  them  was  carried  by  her  relatives,  rigid  as 
a  corpse.  They  stood  her  on  her  feet ;  they  shook  her.  She 
seemed  dead.  Her  face  was  all  dusty,  the  skin  flayed 
from  her  nose  and  forehead,  her  mouth  full  of  blood.  Those 
who  helped  her  blew  in  her  face  to  bring  her  back  to  con- 
sciousness, wiped  her  mouth  with  a  cloth  which  became 
crimson,  shook  her  again  and  called  her  by  name.  All  at 
once  her  head  fell  back ;  then  she  threw  herself  against  the 
railing,  grasped  the  iron  bars,  stiffened  her  whole  body,  and 
began  to  scream  like  a  woman  in  delivery. 

She  yelled  and  struggled,  drowning  every  other  clamor. 
A  torrent  of  tears  inundated  her  face,  washing  off  the  dust 
and  blood. 

"Madonna!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 


THE   NEW   LIFE.  377 

And  behind  her,  by  her  sides,  other  women  surged,  tot- 
tered, reanimated  themselves,  implored : 

"  Mercy!     Mercy!  "  * 

They  lost  their  voices,  grew  pale,  broke  down  heavily, 
and  were  carried  away  inert  masses,  while  others  again 
seemed  to  surge  up  from  below  ground. 

"Mercy!     Mercy!" 

These  shrieks,  which  rent  the  breasts  that  emitted 
them;  these  syllables  repeated  without  cease,  with  the 
persistence  of  the  same  unconquerable  faith;  this  thick 
smoke,  which  overhung  like  the  cloud  of  a  tempest;  this 
contact  of  bodies,  this  mixture  of  breaths,  the  sight  of  this 
blood  and  these  tears— all  this  made  that  at  one  moment 
the  entire  multitude  found  itself  possessed  by  a  single  soul, 
became  a  single  being,  miserable  and  terrible,  having  but 
one  gesture,  but  one  voice,  but  one  convulsion,  but  one 
frenzy.  All  the  evils  melted  into  one  single  evil,  which 
the  Virgin  should  destroy;  all  the  hopes  melted  into  one 
single  hope,  which  the  Virgin  should  grant. 

"Mercy!     Mercy!" 

And,  beneath  the  scintillating  Image,  the  little  flames  of 
the  waxen  tapers  trembled  before  this  wind  of  passion. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GEORGE  and  Hippolyte  were  now  seated  in  the  open  air, 
away  from  the  turmoil,  beneath  the  trees,  stupefied  and 
faint,  like  two  shipwrecked  people  escaped  from  peril,  mute, 
almost  without  power  of  thought,  although,  from  time  to 
time,  a  shudder  at  the  recent  horror  again  ran  through 
them.  Hippolyte's  eyes  were  red  from  crying.  Both,  in 
the  Sanctuary,  at  the  tragic  moment,  had  been  seized  by  a 
common  delirium;  and,  from  fear  of  madness,  they  had 
taken  flight. 

They  were  now  seated  away  from  the  turmoil,  at  the  ex- 
treme end  of  the  esplanade,  beneath  the  trees.  This 
corner  was  almost  deserted.  One  only  saw  there,  around 
several  twisted  olive-tree  trunks,  groups  of  beasts  of  burden 
with  empty  pack-saddles,  in  an  immobility  of  lifeless  forms ; 
and  they  cast  a  sad  aspect  over  the  shade  of  the  trees.  In 
the  distance  could  be  heard  the  murmur  of  the  swarming 
multitude;  one  heard  the  cadences  of  the  sacred  chants, 
the  blasts  of  the  trumpets,  the  ringing  of  the  bells ;  one 
perceived  the  pilgrimages  developing  into  long  files,  turning 
around  the  church,  entering  it  and  leaving  it. 

"  Do  you  want  to  sleep  ?"  asked  George,  who  noticed 
that  Hippolyte  was  closing  her  eyes. 

"  No ;  but  I  have  no  longer  the  courage  to  look " 

George  felt  the  same  repugnance.  The  continuity  and 
acuteness  of  the  sensations  had  overcome  the  resistance  of  his 
organs.  The  spectacle  had  become  intolerable.  He  arose. 


THE    NEW    LIFE. 


279 


"  Come,  get  up,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  go  and  sit  down 
farther  off. ' ' 

They  descended  into  a  cultivated  valley,  seeking  a  little 
shade.  The  sun  was  very  ardent.  Both  thought  of  their 
house  at  San  Vito,  of  the  beautiful,  airy  rooms,  opening 
on  the  sea. 

"Are  you  suffering  much  ?"  asked  George,  discovering 
on  his  friend's  face  the  manifest  signs  of  pain,  and,  in 
her  eyes,  the  sombre  sadness  that  lately,  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd,  near  the  pillar  of  the  portal,  had  already  frightened 
him. 

"No.     I  am  very  tired." 

"  Do  you  want  to  sleep  ?  Why  not  sleep  a  little  ?  Lean 
against  me.  Afterwards  you  will  feel  better.  Will  you?  " 

"No,  no." 

"  Lean  against  me.  We  will  wait  until  Colas  returns 
before  we  go  to  Casalbordino.  Meanwhile,  rest  a  little." 

She  removed  her  hat,  bent  towards  him,  and  leaned  her 
head.  He  looked  at  her  in  this  attitude. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are,"  he  said. 

She  smiled.  Once  more  the  suffering  transfigured  her, 
gave  her  greater  seductive  charm. 

He  said  again : 

"  How  long  it  is  since  you  gave  me  a  kiss  !  " 

They  embraced. 

"  Now,  sleep  a  little,"  he  begged,  tenderly. 

His  sentiment  of  love  seemed  renewed  in  him,  after  so 
many  horrible  and  strange  things  that  had  oppressed  them. 
He  began  once  more  to  isolate  himself,  to  recoil  within 
himself,  to  repulse  all  communion  that  was  not  with  the 
elect  of  his  heart.  His  mind  freed  itself  with  an  incon- 
ceivable rapidity  from  all  the  phantoms  created  during  the 
period  of  the  mystic  illusion,  the  ascetic  ideal ;  he  threw 


j8o  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

off  the  yoke  of  that  "  divine  "  which  he  had  tried  to  substi- 
tute for  his  inert  will,  from  the  very  hopelessness  of  arous- 
ing it.  He  now  felt  for  "  faith  "  the  same  disgust  that  he 
had  felt  in  the  church  for  the  unclean  beasts  that  crawled 
in  the  sacred  dust.  He  saw  again  the  fat  and  pale  hands 
of  the  priests  who  received  the  offerings,  the  continual  bal- 
ancing of  the  black  figures  behind  the  closed  railing.  All 
that  was  ignoble,  denied  the  presence  of  that  Lord  whom 
he  had  hoped  to  know  in  an  annihilating  revelation.  But, 
finally,  the  great  proof  had  been  accomplished.  He  had 
experienced  the  material  contact  with  the  inferior  classes  of 
his  race,  and  nothing  had  resulted  from  it  for  him  but  a 
sentiment  of  invincible  horror.  His  being  had  no  roots  in 
that  ground,  could  have  nothing  in  common  with  that  mul- 
titude which,  like  most  species  of  animals,  had  attained 
its  definite  type,  had  definitely  incarnated  in  its  brutish 
flesh  permanency  of  habit.  For  how  many  centuries,  dur- 
ing how  many  generations,  had  this  immutable  type  been 
perpetuated  ?  So  the  human  species  had  an  absolutely  inert 
basis  which  persisted  beneath  the  undulations  of  .moving 
superior  elements. 

So  the  ideal  type  of  humanity  was  not  in  a  distant  future, 
at  the  unknown  end  of  a  progressive  evolution  ;  it  could 
only  manifest  itself  on  the  crest  of  the  waves,  in  the  most 
elevated  beings.  He  perceived  now  that,  in  trying  to  find 
himself  entirely  and  to  recognize  his  veritable  essence  by 
means  of  an  immediate  contact  with  the  race  from  which 
he  had  sprung,  he  deceived  himself  like  a  man  who  attempts 
to  determine  the  form,  dimension,  direction,  speed,  and 
power  of  a  sea  wave  by  the  action  of  the  subjacent  volume 
of  water.  The  experiment  had  not  succeeded.  He  was  as 
much  a  stranger  to  this  multitude  as  to  a  tribe  of  Ocean- 
ians ;  he  was  as  much  a  stranger  to  his  country,  to  the  land 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  281 

of  his  birth,  to  his  fatherland,  as  he  was  to  his  family  and 
to  his  hearth.  He  should  forever  renounce  that  vain  search 
for  the  fixed  state,  the  stable  support,  the  assured  help. 
;<  The  sensation  I  have  of  my  being  resembles  that  which  a 
man  would  have,  who,  condemned  to  hold  himself  upright 
on  a  ceaselessly  oscillating  and  unbalanced  surface,  would 
feel  his  support  ceaselessly  fail  him,  no  matter  where  he 
placed  his  foot."  He  had  used  this  vision  once  to  paint 
his  perpetual  anxiety.  But  why,  since  he  wished  to  preserve 
life,  did  he  not  become,  by  dint  of  method,  sufficiently 
strong  and  agile  to  become  habituated  to  preserving  his 
equilibrium  amid  the  diverse  impulsions,  and  to  dance  even 
on  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  freely  and  boldly?  In  truth, 
he  wished  to  preserve  life.  What  proved  that,  as  far  as  evi- 
dence could,  was  his  successive  experiments  themselves. 
In  him  a  deep  instinct,  resting  intact  up  to  then,  arose 
with  ever  new  artifices  against  mortal  languor.  That  ascetic 
dream  which  he  had  constructed  with  such  richness, 
trimmed  with  such  elegance,  was  it  anything  else  than  an 
expedient  for  combating  death  ?  He  himself,  since  the 
beginning,  had  set  himself  the  dilemma :  either  to  fol  • 
low  the  example  of  Demetrius,  or  to  give  himself  to 
Heaven.  He  had  chosen  Heaven,  to  preserve  his  life. 
"  Apply  henceforth  your  mind  to  acquire  the  disgust  of  truth 
and  certitude,  if  you  wish  to  live.  Renounce  searching  ex- 
perience. Respect  the  veils.  Believe  in  the  visible  line 
and  in  the  proffered  Word.  Do  not  seek  beyond  the  world 
any  of  the  appearances  that  your  marvellous  senses  have 
created.  Adore  the  illusion." 

And  he  already  found  a  charm  in  this  fleeting  hour.  The 
profundity  of  his  conscience  and  the  infinite  extension  of 
his  sensibility  filled  him  with  pride.  The  innumerable 
phenomena  that,  instant  by  instant,  succeeded  one  another 


282  THE    TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

in  his  inner  world  made  the  comprehensive  power  of  his 
soul  appear  to  be  illimitable.  And  that  fleeting  hour  dur- 
ing which  he  believed  he  could  discover  hidden  connec- 
tions and  secret  analogies  between  the  representations  of 
Chance  and  his  own  sentiment  possessed,  in  reality,  a  singu- 
lar charm  for  him. 

In  the  distance  could  be  heard  the  confused  murmur  of 
the  wild  crowd  from  which  he  had  just  extricated  himself; 
and  that  confused  murmur  aroused  in  him,  in  flashes,  the 
vision  of  a  great,  sinister  furnace  in  which  demons  were 
struggling  in  a  tragic  combat.  And  above  this  incessant 
murmur  he  distinguished  also,  at  every  breath  of  the  breeze, 
the  delicious  rustling  of  the  branches  that  shielded  his  med- 
itation and  Hippolyte's  repose.  Hippolyte  was  resting  in 
a  doze,  her  mouth  half-open,  scarcely  breathing;  and  a 
light  moisture  dampened  her  brow.  Her  hands  were  folded 
in  her  lap,  ungloved,  pale ;  and  in  imagination  George  saw 
between  the  fingers  the  "  plucked-out  tuft  of  hair."  Just 
as  this  tuft  of  hair  appeared  and  disappeared  in  the  strong 
light,  on  the  burning  soil,  appeared  also  the  phantom  of  the 
epileptic,  he  who  had  unexpectedly  fallen  at  the  doorway 
writhing  beneath  the  grasp  of  two  men  who  were  trying  to 
force  open  and  place  a  key  in  his  mouth.  This  phantom 
appeared  and  disappeared,  as  if  it  were  the  dream  of  the 
sleeping  woman,  and  rendered  visible.  "  What  if  she 
awoke  and  the  epilepsy  returned  ?"  thought  George,  with 
an  inner  shudder.  "  The  image  that  forms  in  my  brain  is 
perhaps  transmitted  to  me  from  her.  I  see  perhaps  her 
dream.  And  her  dream  is  perhaps  caused  by  an  organic 
disturbance  that  commences  and  will  increase  as  far  as  an 
attack.  Is  not  a  dream  sometimes  the  presage  of  a  malady 
that  is  breeding  ?  "  He  dwelt  for  a  long  time  in  the  medita- 
tion of  these  mysteries  of  the  animal  substance,  vaguely  per- 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  283 

ceived.  Against  the  diffuse  depths  of  this  physical  sen- 
sibility, already  enlightened  by  the  five  superior  senses, 
gradually  appeared  other  intermediary  senses,  whose  very 
subtle  perceptions  disclosed  to  him  a  world  up  to  then 
unknown.  Was  it  impossible  that  Hippolyte's  latent  mal- 
ady furnished  him  with  a  condition  favorable  for  communi- 
cating with  her  in  some  extraordinary  manner  ? 

He  regarded  her  attentively,  as  he  had  done  in  bed  on 
that  first  day,  already  so  distant.  He  saw  the  light  shadows 
of  the  hanging  branches  tremble  on  her  face.  He  heard  the 
continual  tumult  that  spread  out  from  the  Sanctuary  in  the 
infinite  light.  Sadness  again  fell  on  his  heart;  lassitude 
crushed  him  to  earth  again.  He  leaned  his  head  against 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  and  closed  his  eyes,  without  thinking 
of  anything. 

Slumber  was  about  to  seize  him,  when  a  start  of  Hippolyte 
awoke  him. 

"George  !  " 

She  awoke  frightened,  agitated,  no  longer  recognizing 
the  surrounding  spot ;  the  strong  light  annoyed  her,  and  she 
covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands,  groaning. 

"  My  God,  how  I'm  suffering  !  " 

She  complained  of  a  pain  in  her  temples. 

"  Where  are  we  ?  Oh !  what  an  awful  dream  it 
was." 

"  I  should  not  have  brought  you,"  said  George,  uneasy. 
"  How  sorry  I  am  !  " 

"  I  have  not  strength  enough  to  rise.     Help  me." 

He  raised  her  up  by  the  arms.  She  tottered,  and,  seized 
by  vertigo,  clung  to  him. 

"What's  the  matter?  Where  do  you  suffer?"  he 
cried  in  a  changed  voice,  seized  by  a  panicky  terror,  be- 
lieving that  she  was  about  to  be  taken  with  a  fit,  there,  in 


284  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

the  open  country,  far  from  all  help.  "  What's  the  matter  ? 
What's  the  matter  ?" 

He  clasped  her  closely  to  him,  pressing  her  to  his  heart, 
which  beat  with  horrible  violence. 

"  No,  no,  it  is  nothing,"  stammered  Hippolyte,  who  had 
all  at  once  understood  his  terror,  and  who  had  grown  pale. 
"It  is  nothing.  My  head  is  giddy.  The  sun  has  made 
me  dizzy.  It  is  nothing." 

Her  lips  were  almost  white,  and  she  avoided  looking  her 
lover  in  the  eyes.  He  could  not  yet  succeed  in  dominat- 
ing his  anguish,  and  poignantly  regretted  having  awak- 
ened in  her  the  fearful  and  shameful  preoccupation.  His 
memory  recalled  this  passage  in  a  letter:  "What  if  the 
malady  should  seize  me  while  in  your  arms  ?  No,  no,  I 
will  never  see  you  again;  I  do  not  wish  to  see  you  any 
more  ! ' ' 

She  said,  in  a  feeble  voice  : 

"  It's  over.  I'm  better.  But  I'm  thirsty.  Where  can  I 
get  a  drink  ?  ' ' 

"  Over  there,  near  the  church,  where  the  tents  are,"  said 
George. 

She  refused  vigorously,  with  a  motion  of  her  head. 

"  I  will  go.     Wait  for  me  here  !  " 

She  was  obstinate  in  her  refusal. 

"  Let  us  send  Colas.  He  must  be  near  by;  I'll  call 
him." 

"  Yes,  call  him,  so  we  may  return  to  Casalbordino.  I 
will  drink  there.  I  can  wait.  Let  us  go." 

She  leaned  on  George's  arm.  They  remounted  the  hill. 
Arrived  at  the  top,  they  saw  once  more  the  plain  swarming 
with  people,  the  white  huts,  the  reddish  edifice.  Around 
the  twisted  trunks  of  the  olive-trees  still  stood,  ever  mo- 
tionless, the  melancholy  forms  of  the  beasts  of  burden. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  285 

Near  them,  in  the  same  shade  where  they  had  previously 
sought  a  refuge,  an  old  woman  was  seated,  who,  to  all 
appearances,  seemed  to  be  a  centenarian ;  she,  also,  was  mo- 
tionless, her  hands  placed  on  her  knees,  the  fleshless  limbs 
only  partly  covered  by  her  petticoat.  Her  white  hair  hung 
down  the  sides  of  her  waxen  cheeks ;  the  mouth,  without 
lips,  resembled  a  deep  furrow ;  her  eyes  were  sealed  forever 
beneath  the  corroded  eyelids;  her  entire  air  expressed  a 
reminiscence  of  innumerable  pains. 

"Is  she  dead?"  asked  Hippolyte  in  a  whisper,  stop- 
ping, seized  by  fear  and  respect. 

The  multitude  was  pushing  about  the  Sanctuary.  The 
processions  whirled  around  chanting,  beneath  the  cruel 
sun.  One  of  these  processions  came  from  under  the  great 
portal  and  turned  towards  the  open  space,  preceded  by  its 
cross-bearer.  Arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  esplanade,  men 
and  women  stopped  and  turned  towards  the  church  in  a 
half-circle,  the  women  squatting,  the  men  upright,  the 
cross-bearer  in  the  centre.  They  prayed  and  crossed  them- 
selves. Then  they  sent  towards  the  church  a  great,  simulta- 
neous cry — the  last  salutation.  And  they  resumed  their 
way,  intoning  the  hymn  : 

Viva  Maria  ! 
Viva  Maria  ! 

The  old  woman  did  not  change  her  attitude.  Something 
great,  terrible,  and  indefinitely  supernatural  emanated 
from  her  solitary  old  age  in  the  shadow  of  the  arid  and 
almost  petrified  olive-tree  whose  cleft  trunk  seemed  marked 
by  a  bolt  from  heaven.  If  she  still  lived,  her  eyes  at  least 
did  not  see,  her  ears  no  longer  heard,  all  her  senses  were 
obliterated.  Yet  she  had  the  appearance  of  a  Witness  who 
was  looking  towards  the  invisible  region  of  eternity. 


286  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  Death  is  not  as  mysterious  as  this  remnant  of  life  in  this 
human  ruin,"  thought  George.  And  at  the  same  time 
there  arose  in  his  mind,  accompanied  by  an  extraordinary 
emotion,  the  vague  image  of  a  very  ancient  myth.  "  Why  dost 
thou  not  awaken  the  Mother  secular  who  sleeps  on  the  threshold 
of  Death  ?  In  her  slumber  resides  the  first  Science.  Why 
dost  thou  not  interrogate  the  wise  earthly  Mother  ?  ' '  Vague 
words,  the  obscure  fragments  of  ancient  epics,  awoke  in  his 
memory ;  indefinite  lines  and  symbols  swayed  and  envel- 
oped him. 

"  Let  us  go,  George,"  said  Hippolyte,  shaking  him 
lightly,  after  an  interval  of  pensive  silence.  "  How  sad 
everything  is  here  !  " 

Her  voice  was  weak,  and  in  her  eyes  was  that  sad  shadow 
in  which  her  lover  read  an  inexpressible  horror  and  disgust. 

He  dared  not  encourage  her,  for  fear  she  would  feel  in  his 
encouragements  the  preoccupation  of  the  horrible  menace 
that  seemed  to  hang  over  her,  since  the  moment  that  she 
had  seen  the  epileptic  fall  in  the  crowd. 

But,  a  few  steps  farther  on,  she  stopped  again,  choked 
by  incoercible  anguish,  strangled  by  a  knot  of  sobs  that  she 
could  not  untie.  She  looked  at  her  lover,  then  gazed  about 
her,  distracted. 

"  My  God,  my  God  !     What  sorrow  !  " 

It  was  a  sorrow  entirely  corporeal,  a  brutal  sorrow  that 
arose  from  the  depths  of  her  being  like  a  compact  and 
heavy  thing,  crushing  her  with  an  insupportable  weight. 
She  would  have  liked  to  sink  to  the  ground  as  if  beneath  an 
enormous  burden,  never  to  arise  again ;  she  would  have  liked 
to  lose  consciousness,  to  become  an  inert  mass,  to  expire. 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me,  what  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  to 
case  you  ?  ' '  stammered  George,  pressing  her  hand,  prey  to 
a  mad  terror. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  287 

Was  not  this  sadness  perhaps  the  chrysalis  of  the  illness? 

For  a  few  seconds,  she  remained  with  her  eyes  fixed  and 
rather  haggard.  She  shivered  beneath  the  shock  caused  by 
the  clamor  raised  in  the  vicinity  by  a  procession  which 
saluted  the  church  on  leaving. 

"  Take  me  away  somewhere.  Perhaps  there  is  a  hotel 
at  Casalbordino.  Where  can  Colas  be  ?  " 

George  looked  anxiously  around,  in  the  hope  of  discov- 
ering the  old  man.  He  said  : 

"  Perhaps  he  is  looking  for  us  in  the  crowd;  or  perhaps 
he  has  gone  to  Casalbordino,  thinking  he  will  find  us 
there." 

"  Let  us  go  alone,  then.  Down  below,  yonder,  I  see 
some  carriages." 

"  Let  us  go,  if  you  like.     But  lean  on  me." 

They  directed  their  steps  towards  the  highroad,  which 
lay  like  a  long  white  ribbon  on  the  other  side  of  the  es- 
planade. It  seemed  as  if  the  tumult  followed  them.  The 
trumpet  of  a  mountebank  sent  after  them  its  piercing  notes. 
The  always  even  cadence  of  the  hymn,  persistently  domi- 
nated all  other  sounds  by  its  exasperating  continuity. 

Viva  Maria  .- 
Viva  Maria  I 

A  beggar  unexpectedly  appeared,  as  if  he  had  sprung 
from  below  ground ;  and  he  stretched  out  his  hand. 

"  Charity,  for  the  love  of  the  Madonna  !  " 

It  was  a  young  man,  with  his  head  bound  in  a  red  hand- 
kerchief, one  corner  of  which  covered  his  eye.  He  raised 
this  corner  and  showed  an  enormous  eye,  swollen  like  a 
pocket,  purulent,  on  which  the  winking  of  the  upper  eye- 
lids forced  a  shudder  horrible  to  see. 

"  Charity,  for  the  love  of  the  Madonna !  " 


288  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   t)EATH. 

George  gave  him  money ;  and  the  beggar  again  hid  his 
deformity.  But,  a  little  farther  on,  a  man  of  gigantic 
stature,  with  an  empty  sleeve,  half-raised  his  shirt  in  order 
to  show  the  red  and  furrowed  cicatrice  of  the  amputation. 

"  A  bite — a  horse's  bite  !     Look  !  " 

And  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground,  thus  uncovered, 
and  he  kissed  the  ground  several  times,  crying  each  time, 
in  a  harsh  voice  : 

"  For  pity's  sake!" 

Under  a  tree  was  another  beggar,  a  bandy-legged  fellow, 
on  a  kind  of  seat  composed  of  a  pack-saddle,  a  goat-skin,  an 
empty  petroleum  can  and  large  stones.  Wrapped  in  a  sordid 
covering  from  which  protruded  two  hairy  legs,  soiled  with 
dry  mud,  he  wildly  shook  his  hand,  twisted  like  a  root,  to 
chase  away  the  flies  that  assailed  him  in  clouds. 

"  Charity  !  Charity  !  Have  pity  on  a  poor  man  !  The 
Madonna  will  pardon  you.  Have  pity  on  a  poor  man  !  " 

At  the  sight  of  other  beggars  who  came  running  up, 
Hippolyte  hastened  her  steps.  George  made  a  sign  to  the 
nearest  coachman.  When  they  were  in  the  carriage,  Hip- 
polyte uttered  a  cry  of  relief : 

"  At  last !  " 

George  questioned  the  coachman : 

"  Is  there  a  hotel  at  Casalbordino  ?  " 

"  Yes,  signer,  there  is  one." 

"  How  long  will  it  take  to  get  there  ?" 

"  A  short  half -hour." 

"  Let  us  go  on,  then  !  " 

He  took  Hippolyte's  hands,  tried  to  cheer  her  up. 

"  Courage,  courage  !  We  will  take  a  room ;  we  can  rest. 
We  will  see  nothing,  hear  nothing  more.  I,  too,  am  ex- 
hausted with  fatigue  and  my  head  feels  tired." 

He  added,  smiling: 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  289 

"  Aren't  you  a  little  hungry  ?  " 

She  responded  to  his  smile.  He  added  again,  evoking 
the  remembrance  of  the  old  hotel  of  Ludovic  Togni : 

"  It  will  be  as  it  was  at  Jklbano.     Do  you  remember  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  becoming  a  little  calmer. 
He  wanted  to  bring  her  to  a  state  of  light  and  joyous 
thoughts.  He  said  : 

"  What  has  become  of  Pancrace  ?  Ah  !  if  we  had  one 
of  his  oranges.  Do  you  remember  ?  I  do  not  know  what  I 
would  give  for  an  orange.  Are  you  very  thirsty  ?  Are  you 
suffering  ?  " 

"  No.  ...  I  feel  better.  ...  I  can  hardly 
believe  that  the  torture  is  over.  .  .  .  My  God !  I 
shall  never  forget  this  day,  never — never  !  " 

"Poor  soul!" 

He  tenderly  kissed  her  hands.  Then,  pointing  to  the 
vegetation  that  bordered  the  road  : 

"Look!"  he  exclaimed,  "see  how  beautiful  the  corn 
is.  Let  us  purify  our  eyes." 

To  right  and  left  the  harvest  stretched  immaculate, 
already  ripe  for  the  sickle,  high  and  vigorous,  breathing  in 
the  light  by  the  slender  points  of  their  innumerable  ears, 
that,  at  certain  moments,  seemed  to  wave  and  become  con- 
verted into  a  volatile  gold.  Alone  beneath  the  limpid  arch 
of  heaven,  they  exhaled  a  spirit  of  purity  by  which  both 
their  hearts,  sad  and  tired,  were  refreshed. 

"  How  strong  the  reflection  is  ?  "  said  Hippolyte,  half- 
lowering  her  long  lashes. 

"  You  have  your  curtains." 

She  smiled.  It  seemed  that  the  shadow  of  her  sadness 
was  about  to  be  dissipated. 

Many  carriages  came  in  a  long  line  from  the  opposite 
direction,  descending  towards  the  Sanctuary.  For  a  few 
19 


390  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

minutes  the  road,  the  bushes,  the  fields,  all  disappeared 
from  around  them  in  the  dust. 

"Charity,  for  the  love  of  the  Madonna!  Charity! 
Charity!" 

"  Charity  !     In  the  name  of  the  Virgin  of  Miracles  !  " 

"  Have  pity  on  a  poor,  unfortunate  man  !  " 

"Charity!     Charity!" 

"  Give  me  a  piece  of  bread  !  " 

"Charity!" 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five  voices,  more  and  still  more 
voices,  the  voices  of  beings  still  invisible,  burst  forth  in 
the  midst  of  the  cloud,  hoarse,  penetrating,  sharp,  caver- 
nous, humble,  angry,  plaintive,  all  different  and  discordant. 

"Charity!" 

"Charity!" 

"Stop!     Stop!" 

"  Charity,  in  the  name  of  the  most  holy  Mary  of  Mira- 
cles !" 

"Charity!     Charity!" 

"-Stop!" 

And  through  the  dust  appeared  confusedly  a  growling 
mob  of  monsters.  One  shook  the  stumps  of  his  amputated 
hands,  bleeding  as  if  the  mutilation  were  fresh  or  badly  cic- 
atrized. Another  had  on  his  palms  disks  of  leather,  that 
he  used  painfully  to  drag  along  the  weight  of  his  inert 
body.  Another  had  an  enormous  goitre,  wrinkled  and 
violet-hued,  that  dangled  like  a  pendant.  Another,  on 
account  of  an  excrescence  on  his  lip,  seemed  to  hold 
between  his  teeth  the  remains  of  a  raw  liver.  Another  dis- 
played a  face  devastated  by  a  deep  erosion  that  showed  his 
nasal  cavities  and  upper  jaw.  Others  exhibited  similar 
horrors,  freely,  with  violent  gestures,  with  almost  menacing 
attitudes,  as  though  to  enforce  a  right. 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  2QI 

"Stop!     Stop!" 
"Charity!" 

"  Look  !     Look  !     Look !  " 
"Help  me!     Help  me  !" 
"Charity!" 
"Charity!" 
"Help  me  !" 

It  was  an  assault — almost  an  extortion.     They  all  seemed 
resolved  to  demand  a  mite,  even  if  they  had  to  seize  the 
wheels  and  hang  on  the  limbs  of  the  horses. 
"Stop!     Stop!" 

While  George  sought  for  some  money  in  his  pockets  in 
order  to  throw  it  among  the  horde,  Hippolyte  pressed  close 
to  him,  seized  at  the  throat  by  a  feeling  of  disgust,  power- 
less henceforth  to  master  the  fantastic  terror  which  invaded 
her  in  this   powerful  white    light   in  this  unknown    land 
where  swarmed  so  lugubrious  a  life. 
"Stop!     Stop!" 
"Charity!" 
"Pity!     Pity!" 

But  the  coachman,  becoming  angry,  rose  suddenly  on  his 
seat,  shook  his  whip  vigorously,  and  began  to  beat  the  beg- 
gars with  all  his  might ;  and  he  accompanied  every  blow 
with  invectives.  The  lash  whistled.  Beneath  his  blows 
the  beggars  howled  maledictions,  but  did  not  retreat.  Each 
wished  his  share. 

"  Give  me  some  !  Give  me  some  !  " 
Then  George  threw  a  handful  of  coins  in  the  dust ;  and 
the  dust  covered  the  scuffle  of  the  monsters,  choked  their 
blasphemies.  The  man  with  the  amputated  hands  and  the 
fellow  with  the  inert  limbs  still  essayed  to  follow  the  car- 
riage for  a  moment;  but,  menaced  by  the  whip,  they 
stopped. 


2Q2  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  signora,"  said  the  coachman.  "  No- 
body will  get  near  us  now,  I  promise  you." 

New  voices  arose,  groaning,  yelling,  invoking  the  Virgin 
and  Jesus,  announcing  the  nature  of  their  deformities  and 
sores,  recounting  the  malady  or  misfortune.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  ambush  prepared  by  the  first  bandits,  a  second 
army  in  tatters  stretched  along  in  a  double  chain  on  the 
borders  of  the  road  as  far  as  the  houses  of  the  distant  mar- 
ket town. 

"My  God,  my  God!  What  a  cursed  country!"  mur- 
mured Hippolyte,  exhausted,  feeling  herself  fainting.  "  Let 
us  get  away  from  here.  Let  us  go  away  !  Please,  George, 
let  us  go  back." 

Nothing — not  the  whirlwind  of  madness  that  drove  the 
fanatic  bands  around  the  temple,  nor  the  hopeless  cries 
that  seemed  to  issue  from  a  place  on  fire,  from  a  shipwreck 
or  a  massacre,  nor  the  inanimate  and  bloody  old  men  who 
lay  in  heaps  along  the  court  of  the  votive  hall,  nor  the 
convulsed  women  who  crawled  towards  the  altar  tearing  their 
tongues  against  the  stone,  nor  the  supreme  clamor  that 
issued  from  the  entrails  of  the  multitude  confounded  in  an 
unique  anguish  and  in  an  unique  hope — nothing,  nothing, 
was  as  terrible  as  the  spectacle  of  that  great  dusty  hillside, 
blinding  in  the  glare  of  the  sun,  where  all  these  monsters 
of  human  misery,  all  this  debris  of  a  ruined  race,  these 
bodies  vilified  to  the  level  of  the  unclean  beast  and  excre- 
mental  matter,  opened  their  rags  to  expose  their  impuri- 
ties and  proclaim  them.  The  innumerable  horde  occupied 
the  slope  and  the  ditches  ;  they  had  with  them  their  family, 
their  progeniture,  their  relatives,  their  household  goods. 
One  saw  women  half-naked  and  as  lean  as  bitches  who  have 
just  littered,  children  green  as  lizards,  emaciated,  with 
rapacious  eyes,  their  mouths  already  withered,  taciturn, 


THE   NEW    LIFE.  293 

breeding  in  the  blood  the  hereditary  disease.  Each  tribe 
possessed  its  monster :  one-armed,  bandy-legged,  subject  to 
goitre,  blindness,  leprosy,  epilepsy.  Each  had  as  a  patri- 
mony his  ulcer  to  cultivate,  from  which  to  derive  an  in- 
come. Urged  on  by  his  own  people,  the  monster  left  the 
group,  advanced  in  the  dust,  gesticulated  and  implored,  for 
the  common  benefit : 

"  Charity,  charity,  if  you  hope  for  mercy  !  Charity ! 
Take  pity  on  me  !  Take  pity  on  me  !  " 

A  monomere,  black  and  flat-nosed  as  a  mulatto,  with  a 
long  leonine  mane,  picked  up  the  dust  in  the  curls  of  his 
hair,  then  shook  his  head,  enveloping  himself  in  a  cloud.  A 
woman  afflicted  with  hernia,  of  no  age,  having  no  longer  a 
human  face,  squatted  on  a  post,  raised  her  apron  to  show 
her  hernia,  enormous  and  yellowish  like  a  bladder  full  of 
suet.  Seated  on  the  ground,  a  man  afflicted  with  ele- 
phantiasis pointed  with  his  finger  to  his  leg,  massive  as  the 
trunk  of  an  oak,  covered  with  warts  and  yellow  crusts, 
dotted  with  black  or  hardened  spots,  so  voluminous  that 
one  would  have  said  it  did  not  belong  to  him.  A  blind 
man,  on  his  knees,  his  hands  stretched  towards  heaven  in 
the  attitude  of  an  ecstatic,  had  under  his  high  and  bald 
brow  two  little  blood-stained  holes.  Others  and  still  others 
showed  themselves  in  the  dazzling  glare  of  the  sun,  as  far 
as  the  view  could  carry.  All  the  great  hillside  was  in- 
fested by  them  without  an  interval.  Their  supplications 
continued  uninterruptedly,  rising  and  falling  in  chorus,  in 
discord,  with  a  thousand  accents.  The  vast  extent  of  the 
solitary  country,  the  deserted  and  silent  sky,  the  hallucinat- 
ing reverberation  of  the  fiery  road,  the  immobility  of  the 
vegetable  forms — all  these  environments  rendered  the  hour 
tragic,  evoked  the  biblical  image  of  a  road  of  desolation 
conducting  to  the  gates  of  a  cursed  city. 


294  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"Let's  go!  Let's  go  back!  Please,  George,  let's  go 
back!"  repeated  Hippolyte,  with  a  shudder  of  horror, 
dominated  by  the  superstitious  idea  of  a  divine  punishment, 
fearing  other  spectacles  and  more  atrocious  ones,  under  this 
burning  and  empty  sky  in  which  there  began  to  be  heard  a 
metallic  rumbling. 

"  But  where  can  we  go?     Where  shall  we  go  ?  " 

"  No  matter  where.  No  matter  where.  Let  us  go  back 
over  there,  near  the  sea.  We'll  wait  there  until  it's  time 
to  leave.  Please  !  " 

The  fast,  the  torture  of  thirst,  the  hot,  oppressive  atmos- 
phere, had  increased  in  both  their  uneasiness  of  mind. 

"  Do  you  see  ?  Do  you  see  ?  "  she  cried,  as  if  in  front 
of  a  supernatural  apparition.  "  Do  you  see  ?  Will  it  then 
never  end  ?  ' ' 

In  the  light,  the  glaring  and  implacable  light,  advanced 
towards  them  a  band  of  tattered  men  and  women,  and  in 
front  of  the  band  marched  a  sort  of  crier  who  vociferated 
while  agitating  a  copper  tray.  These  men  and  women  bore 
upon  their  shoulders  a  trestle  covered  with  a  mattress  on 
which  lay  an  invalid  of  cadaverous  appearance,  a  yellowish- 
looking  creature,  thin  as  a  skeleton,  tightly  wrapped  in 
bands  of  cloth  like  a  mummy,  the  feet  bare.  And  the  crier 
— an  olive-colored  and  serpentine  man  with  the  eyes  of  a 
madman — pointed  to  the  dying  woman,  and  related  in  a 
high  key  that  this  woman,  who  had  been  ill  from  hemor- 
rhage for  years,  had  obtained  the  miracle  from  the  Virgin 
at  the  very  dawn  of  that  day,  and  he  begged  for  alms  so 
that,  cured  of  her  disease,  she  could  gain  fresh  blood. 
And  he  shook  the  copper  tray,  on  which  tinkled  a  few  coins. 

"  The  Madonna  has  performed  the  miracle  !  The  mir- 
acle !  The  miracle  !  Charity  !  In  the  name  of  the  Very 
Holy  and  the  Very  Merciful  Mary,  charity  I  " 


THE    NEW    LIFE.  295 

The  men,  the  women,  all  together,  contracted  their  faces 
as  if  about  to  weep.  And  the  invalid,  with  a  vague  gesture, 
slightly  raised  her  bony  hands,  the  fingers  of  which  moved 
as  if  to  seize  something  in  the  air;  while  her  bare  feet,  as 
yellow  as  her  hands  and  face,  shiny  at  the  ankles,  had  the 
rigidity  of  death.  And  all  that  was  exposed  in  the  glaring 
and  implacable  light — near,  near,  always  nearer. 

"  Turn  back  !  Turn  back  !  "  cried  George  to  the  driver. 
"  Turn  back,  and  whip  up  your  horses." 

"We're  there,  signor.     What  alarms  you  ?  " 

"Turnback!" 

The  injunction  was  so  imperative  that  the  driver  turned 
round  his  horses  amidst  the  deafening  cries. 

"  Whip  them  up  !     Whip  them  up  !  " 

From  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  the  carriage 
seemed,  among  the  clouds  of  thick  dust,  pierced  every  now 
and  then  by  a  hoarse  yell. 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?  "  asked  the  driver,  bending  down. 

"  Over  there,  over  there,  near  the  sea  !    Whip  them  up  !  " 

George  was  supporting  Hippolyte,  who  had  almost  fainted, 
without  trying  to  revive  her.  He  had  but  a  confused  sen- 
sation of  all  that  was  going  on.  Real  images,  and  fantastic 
images,  whirled  around  his  brain  and  gave  him  hallucina- 
tions. A  continual  buzzing  filled  his  ears,  and  prevented 
him  from  hearing  any  other  sound  distinctly.  His  heart 
was  oppressed  with  a  keen  anguish,  as  in  the  nightmare — • 
the  anguish  to  emerge  from  the  zone  of  this  horrible  dream, 
the  anguish  to  recover  his  first  lucidity,  to  feel  the  loved 
creature  palpitate  on  his  breast,  and  to  see  once  more  the 
tender  smile. 

Viva  Maria  !       v 

Once  more  the  undulation  of  the  hymn  reached  him; 
once  more  the  House  of  the  Virgin  appeared  to  him  on  the 


296  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

left  amid  the  immense  human  swarm,  reddish  in  the  solar 
conflagration,  throned  on  the  summits  of  the  profane  tents, 
irradiating  a  formidable  power. 

Viva  Maria  I 
Viva  Maria  ! 

The  undulation  faded  away;  and  at  a  bend  of  the  hill  the 
Sanctuary  disappeared.  And,  suddenly,  a  cool  breath 
glided  over  the  vast,  waving  harvests.  And  a  long  blue 
band  cut  the  horizon. 

"The  sea!  There's  the  sea!"  cried  George,  as  if  he 
had  just  attained  salvation. 

And  his  heart  dilated. 

"  Courage,  my  soul !     Contemplate  the  sea !  " 


V. 

TEMPUS    DESTRUENDI, 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  table,  laid  in  the  loggia,  presented  a  gay  appearance, 
with  its  transparent  porcelain,  its  bluish  glassware,  its  crim- 
son pinks,  under  the  golden  light  of  a  fixed,  large  lamp, 
which  attracted  the  nocturnal  moths  scattered  in  the  twi- 
light. 

"  Look,  George,  look  !  A  devil  moth  !  It  has  the  eyes 
of  a  demon.  Do  you  see  them  shine  ?  " 

Hippolyte  pointed  to  a  moth  larger  than  the  others, 
strange  in  appearance,  covered  with  a  thick  red  flush,  with 
projecting  eyes  which,  under  the  light,  glittered  like  two 
carbuncles. 

"  It's  coming  on  you  !  It's  coming  on  you !  Take 
care  ! ' ' 

She  laughed  heartily,  making  fun  of  the  instinctive  alarm 
that  George  exhibited,  in  spite  of  himself,  when  one  of 
these  insects  threatened  to  alight  on  him.  "  I  must  have 
it !  "  she  cried,  with  the  rapture  of  a  childish  caprice. 

And  she  tried  to  capture  the  diabolical  moth,  which,  with- 
out settling,  flew  around  the  lamp.  Her  attempts,  abrupt 
and  violent,  were  unsuccessful.  She  upset  a  glass,  knocked 
over  a  pyramid  of  fruit,  almost  smashed  the  lamp-shade. 


298  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  What  fury  !  "  said  George,  who  wanted  to  excite  her. 
"  But  you  won't  succeed." 

"I  shall  succeed,"  replied  Hippolyte  obstinately,  and 
looking  fixedly  at  him.  "  Will  you  make  a  bet  ?  " 

"What  shall  we  bet  ?" 

"  Anything  you  like." 

"  Well,  then,  a  love  game." 

"  Very  well,  a  love  game." 

In  the  warm  light  her  face  was  colored  with  its  softest 
jmd  richest  tints,  that  ideal  coloring,  "  a  compound  of  pale 
amber  and  dull  gold  in  which  were  mingled,  perhaps,  a  few 
tints  of  faded  roses,"  in  which  formerly  George  had  thought 
he  had  found  all  the  mystery  and  all  the  beauty  of  the 
antique  Venetian  soul  emigrated  to  the  kingdom  of  Cyprus. 
She  wore  in  her  hair  a  pink,  ardent  as  desire.  And  her 
eyes,  shaded  by  the  lashes,  shone  like  lakes  between  the 
willows  in  the  twilight. 

At  that  instant  she  appeared  the  woman  of  delights,  the 
strong  and  delicate  instrument  of  pleasure,  the  voluptuous 
and  magnificent  animal  destined  to  ornament  a  banquet,  to 
enliven  a  bed,  to  provoke  equivocal  phantasies  of  an  aes- 
thetic sensuality.  She  appeared  in  the  supreme  splendor  of 
her  animalism — joyous,  active,  supple,  lascivious,  cruel. 

George  observed  her  with  attentive  curiosity,  and  he 
thought:  "What  different  appearances  she  assumes  in  my 
eyes  !  Her  form  is  sketched  by  my  desire  ;  her  shadows  are 
produced  by  my  thought.  Such  as  she  appears  to  me  each 
instant,  she  is  only  the  effect  of  my  continual  inner  creation. 
She  exists  only  in  me.  Her  appearances  change  like  the 
dreams  of  an  invalid.  Gram's  dum  suavis !  When  was 
that  ?"  He  retained  but  a  very  confused  recollection  of 
the  time  when  he  had  kissed  her  brow  and  decorated  her 
with  this  title  of  ideal  nobility.  Now,  this  glorification  of 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  299 

the  loved  one  had  become  almost  inconceivable  to  him. 
He  remembered  vaguely  certain  words  that  she  had  uttered 
and  that  seemed  to  reveal  a  depth  of  soul.  "  What  spoke 
in  her  then?  Was  it  not  my  own  soul  ?  It  was  one  of  my 
ambitions  to  offer  to  my  sad  soul  those  sinuous  lips,  so  she 
might  exhale  her  sorrow  from  an  instrument  of  signal 
beauty." 

He  looked  at  those  lips.  They  were  slightly  contracted, 
not  ungracefully,  participating  in  the  intense  attention  with 
which  Hippolyte  waited  for  an  opportunity  to  seize  the 
night-moth. 

She  watched  for  it  with  sly  prudence;  she  wanted, 
with  one  killing  blow,  to  shut  up  in  the  palm  of  her  hand 
the  winged  prey  that  was  whirling  restlessly  around  the  light. 
She  contracted  her  eyebrows  and  seemed  to  be  prepared  for 
a  spring,  ready  to  jump.  She  leaped  forward  two  or  three 
times,  but  without  success.  The  moth  was  unseizable. 

"Confess  that  you've  lost,"  said  George.  "I  won't 
abuse  my  privilege." 

"No." 

"  Confess  that  you've  lost." 

"  No  !     Woe  to  him  and  to  you,  if  I  catch  him." 

And  she  resumed  her  hunt  with  trembling  impatience. 

"Oh,  he's  gone,"  cried  George,  who  had  lost  the  agile 
flame-worshipper  from  sight.  "  He's  flown  away  !  " 

Hippolyte  was  really  vexed;  the  wager  had  excited  her. 

She  rose  and  cast  a  keen  glance  around  the  room,  to  dis- 
cover the  fugitive. 

"  Here  it  is  !  "  she  cried,  triumphant.  "  There,  on  the 
wall  !  Do  you  see  ?  " 

And  she  made  a  sign  that  she  regretted  she  had  cried  out. 

"  Don't  stir,"  she  went  on  in  a  low  tone,  turning  towards 
her  friend. 


300  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

The  moth  had  alighted  on  the  luminous  wall  and  stayed 
there  motionless,  similar  to  a  little  brown  spot.  With  infi- 
nite precaution,  Hippolyte  approached,  and  her  beautiful 
body,  slender  and  flexible,  cast  a  shadow  on  the  white  wall. 
Quickly  her  hand  was  raised,  descended,  closed. 

"I  have  it!     I  have  it !" 

And  she  exulted  with  childish  joy. 

"What  forfeit  shall  I  impose?  I'll  put  it  down  your 
neck.  You  are  in  my  power,  too." 

And  she  pretended  she  was  about  to  execute  her  threat, 
as  on  the  day  she  ran  after  him  on  the  hill. 

George  laughed,  conquered  by  the  spontaneity  of  that 
joy,  which  awoke  in  him  all  that  still  remained  to  him  of 
his  youth.  He  said  : 

"  Come  !  now  sit  down  and  eat  your  fruit,  quietly." 

"Wait,  wait!" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"Wait!" 

She  drew  out  the  pin  which  held  the  pink  in  her  hair, 
and  put  it  between  her  lips.  Then,  gently,  she  opened 
her  fist,  took  the  moth  by  the  wings,  got  ready  to  transfix  it. 

"  How  cruel  you  are  !  "  said  George.  "  How  cruel  you 
are  !  " 

She  smiled,  attentive  to  her  work,  while  the  little  victim 
beat  its  wings,  already  despoiled. 

"  How  cruel  you  are  !  "  repeated  George,  in  a  lower  but 
graver  voice,  noticing  on  Hippolyte's  physiognomy  an  am- 
biguous expression,  mingled  with  complacency  and  repug- 
nance, which  seemed  to  signify  that  she  found  a  special 
pleasure  in  artificially  exciting  and  tormenting  her  own 
feelings. 

He  recalled  that  in  several  circumstances  she  had  already 
shown  a  morbid  taste  for  this  kind  of  excitation.  No  pure 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  301 

sentiment  of  pity  had  entered  her  heart,  either  in  presence 
of  the  tears  and  blood  of  the  pilgrims  at  the  Sanctuary  or 
in  the  presence  of  the  child  in  its  death  agony.  And  he 
saw  her  again  quickening  her  step  towards  the  group  of 
curious  passers-by  leaning  against  the  parapet  of  the  Pincio 
to  distinguish  the  traces  left  on  the  pavement  by  the  sui- 
cide. 

"Cruelty  is  latent  at  the  bottom  of  her  love,"  he 
thought.  "  There  is  something  destructive  in  her,  and  this 
shows  itself  all  the  stronger  as  the  ardor  of  her  caresses 
becomes  more  intense." 

And  he  saw  once  more  the  frightful  and  almost  Gorgonian 
image  of  this  woman,  just  as  she  had  often  appeared  to  his 
half-closed  eyes  in  the  spasm  of  voluptuousness  or  in  the 
inertia  of  the  supreme  exhaustion. 

"Look!"  she  said,  showing  him  the  moth  squirming 
on  the  pin.  "  Look  how  its  eyes  shine  !  " 

She  presented  it  in  different  ways  to  the  light,  as  when 
one  wishes  to  cause  the  scintillation  of  a  gem.  She  added  : 

"  What  a  beautiful  jewel  !  " 

And,  with  an  easy  gesture,  she  stuck  it  in  her  hair.  Then, 
fixing  George  with  her  gray  eyes  : 

"  You  do  nothing  but  think,  think,  think  !  What  are 
you  thinking  of  ?  At  least,  you  used  to  talk — more  per- 
haps than  was  necessary.  Now  you  have  grown  taciturn, 
you  have  an  air  of  mystery  and  conspiracy.  .  .  .  Are 
you  angry  with  me  ?  Speak,  even  if  it  will  grieve  me." 

The  tone  of  her  voice,  which  had  suddenly  changed,  ex- 
pressed impatience  and  reproach.  Once  more  she  perceived 
that  her  lover  had  been  only  a  meditative  and  solitary  spec- 
tator, a  vigilant  and  maybe  hostile  witness. 

"  Do  speak  !  I  prefer  the  cruel  words  of  the  old  days  to 
this  mysterious  silence.  What's  the  matter  ?  Doesn't  it 


302  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

please  you  to  be  here  ?  Are  you  unhappy  ?  Are  you  tired 
of  me?  Are  you  disappointed  in  me?  " 

To  be  thus  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  taken  to  task  exas- 
perated George,  but  he  repressed  his  anger — he  even  tried  to 
smile. 

"Why  these  strange  questions?"  he  said  calmly. 
"  Does  it  worry  you  ?  I  am  always  thinking  of  you  and  the 
things  that  concern  you." 

And  quickly,  with  an  amiable  smile,  fearing  that  she 
might  suspect  a  shade  of  irony  in  his  words,  he  added  : 

"  You  fecundate  my  brain.  When  I  am  in  your  presence 
my  inner  life  is  so  full  that  the  sound  of  my  own  voice 
displeases  me." 

She  was  pleased  with  this  affected  phrase,  which  seemed 
to  elevate  her  to  a  spiritual  function,  to  proclaim  her  the 
creator  of  a  superior  life.  The  expression  of  her  face  be- 
came serious,  while,  in  her  hair,  the  nocturnal  moth 
squirmed  continuously. 

"  Permit  me  to  remain  silent  without  being  suspected," 
he  continued,  appreciating  the  change  produced  by  his 
artifice  in  this  feminine  soul,  which  the  idealities  of  love 
fascinated  and  exalted.  "  Permit  me  to  remain  silent. 
Do  you  ask  me  to  speak  when  you  see  me  dying  under  your 
kisses  ?  Well,  it  is  not  your  mouth  alone  which  has  the 
power  to  give  me  sensations  surpassing  all  known  limits. 
Every  moment  you  give  me  an  excess  of  sentiment  and  an 
excess  of  thought.  You  will  never  imagine  what  agitations 
are  aroused  in  my  mind  by  a  single  one  of  your  gestures. 
When  you  stir,  when  you  speak,  I  see  a  series  of  prodigies. 
At  times  you  give  me,  as  it  were,  a  reminiscence  of  a  life 
I  have  never  lived.  Immensities  of  darkness  are  suddenly 
illumined  and  live  in  my  memory  like  unlooked-for  con- 
quests. What,  then,  are  the  bread,  the  viands,  the  fruit — all 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  303 

those  material  things  that  make  an  impression  on  my  senses  ? 
What  are  the  very  operations  of  my  organs,  the  external 
manifestations  of  my  corporeal  existence  ?  When  my  mouth 
speaks,  it  seems  almost  as  if  the  sound  of  my  voice  cannot 
reach  the  depths  in  which  I  live.  It  seems  to  me  that,  not 
to  disturb  my  vision,  I  should  rest  motionless  and  mute, 
while  you  pass,  perpetually  transformed,  across  the  worlds 
which  you  have  revealed." 

He  spoke  slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Hippolyte,  fascinated 
by  this  extraordinarily  luminous  face  crowned  by  hair  dark 
and  deep  as  the  night  and  in  which  a  living  and  dying 
thing  caused  a  continual  palpitation.  This  face,  so  near 
and  yet  which  seemed  to  him  intangible,  and  these  scat- 
tered objects  on  the  table,  and  these  high,  purple  flowers, 
and  this  whirl  of  light-winged  forms  around  the  source  of 
the  light,  and  the  pure  serenity  which  descended  from  the 
stars,  and  the  musical  breath  which  rose  from  the  sea,  and 
all  the  images  reflected  by  his  feelings — all  seemed  to  him 
as  in  a  dream.  His  very  person,  his  very  voice,  seemed 
fictitious  to  him.  Her  thoughts  and  words  were  associ- 
ated in  an  easy  and  vague  manner.  As  on  the  moonlit 
night  in  front  of  the  marvellous  vine,  the  substance  of  his 
life  and  of  the  universal  life  was  dissolved  in  the  mists  of 
the  dream. 


CHAPTER  II. 

UNDER  the  tent  erected  on  the  sand,  after  the  bath,  still 
half-nude,  he  watched  Hippolyte  lingering  in  the  sun  by 
the  water-side,  wrapped  in  her  white  peignoir.  He  had 
almost  painful  scintillations  in  his  eyes,  and  the  strong 
noonday  sun  caused  him  a  novel  sensation  of  physical 
trouble,  mingled  with  a  sort  of  vague  fear.  It  was  the  ter- 
rible hour,  the  supreme  hour  of  light  and  silence,  hovering 
over  the  chasm  of  life.  He  comprehended  the  pagan 
superstition,  the  holy  horror  of  canicular  noon-times  on  the 
shore  inhabited  by  a  cruel  and  occult  god.  At  the  bottom 
of  his  vague  fright  stirred  something  like  the  anxiety  of 
the  man  who  expects  a  sudden  and  formidable  apparition. 
He  appeared  to  himself  puerilely  weak  and  cowardly,  as 
diminished  in  courage  and  strength  as  after  a  trial  that  has 
not  succeeded.  In  plunging  his  body  into  the  sea,  in 
presenting  his  brow  to  the  glare  of  the  sun,  in  swimming  a 
short  distance,  in  indulging  his  favorite  exercise,  in  measur- 
ing his  respiration  by  the  breath  of  the  endless  space,  he 
had  felt  by  indubitable  indications  the  impoverishment  of 
his  youth,  the  destructive  work  of  the  enemy ;  he  had  felt 
once  more  the  iron  band  tighten  around  his  vital  activity, 
and  so  reduce  a  new  zone  to  inertia  and  impotency.  The 
sensation  of  this  muscular  lassitude  became  all  the  deeper 
in  proportion  as  he  regarded  more  attentively  the  figure  of 
that  woman  standing  in  the  splendor  of  the  day. 

To  dry  her  hair,  she  had  unfastened  it ;  and  the  curls, 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  305 

made  heavy  by  the  water,  fell  over  her  shoulders,  so  dark 
that  they  almost  appeared  violet.  Her  erect  and  slender  form, 
enveloped  as  in  the  folds  of  a  dress,  stood  out  half  against 
the  glaucous  surface  of  the  sea  and  half  against  the  luminous 
transparency  of  the  sky.  Scarcely  could  one  see,  under- 
neath the  hair,  the  profile  of  her  bent  and  pensive  face. 
She  was  wholly  absorbed  in  the  alternate  pleasures  of  put- 
ting her  bare  feet  in  the  torrid  sand  and  keeping  them  there 
as  long  as  she  could  endure  the  heat,  then  in  plunging  them, 
all  burning,  into  the  caressing  waves  that  licked  the  sand. 
This  double  sensation  seemed  to  afford  her  infinite  enjoy- 
ment, in  which  she  lost  herself.  She  tempered  and  fortified 
her  soul  by  the  contact  with  free  and  healthy  things,  by  the 
complacent  absorption  of  the  salt  water  and  the  sunbeams. 
How,  at  the  same  time,  could  she  be  so  ill  and  so  well  ? 
How  could  she  conciliate  in  her  being  so  many  contradic- 
tions, assume  so  many  aspects  in  a  single  day,  in  a  single 
hour?  The  taciturn  and  sad  woman  in  whom  epilepsy  was 
breeding,  the  mistress,  eager  and  convulsed,  whose  ardor 
was  at  times  alarming,  whose  sensuality  had  at  times  the 
lugubrious  appearance  of  agony — this  same  creature,  stand- 
ing at  the  edge  of  the  sea,  had  senses  capable  of  gathering 
and  savoring  all  the  natural  delights  shed  over  the  surround- 
ing things,  of  appearing  similar  to  the  images  of  the  ancient 
Beauty  leaning  over  the  harmonious  crystal  of  a  Helles- 
pont. 

She  had  an  evidently  superior  power  of  resistance. 
George  viewed  her  with  a  vexation  which,  becoming  grad- 
ually concentrated,  ended  by  assuming  the  seriousness  of 
rancor.  The  sentiment  of  his  own  weakness  was  disturbed 
by  hatred  in  proportion  as  his  perspicacity  became  more 
lucid  and  almost  vindictive. 

Those  bare  feet,  which  by  turns  she  burnt  in  the  sand 

30 


306  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

and  cooled  in  the  water,  were  not  beautiful ;  the  toes  were 
even  deformed,  plebeian,  not  at  all  delicate — they  bore  the 
impress  of  a  lowly  origin.  George  looked  at  them  atten- 
tively, saw  only  them,  with  an  extraordinary  clearness  of 
perception,  as  if  the  details  of  their  shape  had  revealed  a 
secret  to  him.  And  he  thought : 

"  How  many  impure  things  are  fermenting  in  that  blood  ! 
All  the  hereditary  instincts  of  her  race  persist  in  her,  inde- 
structible, ready  to  develop  and  arise  against  any  restraint 
whatsoever.  I  shall  never  succeed  in  making  her  pure.  I 
shall  be  able  only  to  superpose  her  real  individuality  above 
the  changing  images  of  my  dreams ;  and  she  will  be  able 
only  to  offer  to  my  solitary  intoxication  the  indispensable 
instrument  of  her  organs." 

But,  while  his  intelligence  reduced  this  woman  to  be  but 
a  simple  motif  for  his  imagination  and  despoiled  of  all 
value  the  palpable  form,  the  very  acuteness  of  the  present 
perception  made  him  feel  that  what  attached  him  to  her  the 
most  was  precisely  the  real  quality  of  that  flesh;  not  only 
what  there  was  most  beautiful  in  her,  but,  above  all,  what 
was  least  beautiful  in  her.  The  discovery  of  defect  did 
not  loosen  the  tie,  did  not  diminish  the  fascination.  The 
most  vulgar  features  had  an  irritating  attraction  for  him.  He 
knew  well  this  phenomenon,  which  had  often  asserted  itself. 
Often,  with  perfect  clearness  of  vision,  his  eyes  had  seen 
the  slightest  defects  of  Hippolyte's  person  accentuated;  and 
they  had  been  for  a  long  time  subject  to  the  attraction,  they 
had  been  compelled  to  establish  them,  to  examine  them,  to 
exaggerate  them.  And  by  his  senses,  in  his  mind,  he  had 
felt  an  indefinable  disquietude,  almost  always  followed  by 
the  sudden  ardor  of  desire.  That,  certainly,  was  the  most 
terrible  indication  of  the  great  carnal  obsession  which  a 
human  creature  exercises  over  another  human  creature.  Such 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  307 

was  the  spell  which  was  obeyed  by  the  nameless  lover  who, 
in  his  mistress,  loved  above  all  the  marks  traced  by  the 
years  on  her  white  neck,  the  parting  of  the  hair  every  day 
wider,  the  faded  mouth  on  which  the  salty  tears  made  the 
savor  of  the  kisses  more  lasting. 

He  thought  of  the  flight  of  years,  of  the  chain  riveted 
forever  by  custom,  of  the  infinite  sadness  of  the  love  be- 
come a  weary  vice.  He  saw  himself,  in  the  future,  tied 
to  this  flesh  like  the  slave  to  his  iron  collar,  deprived  of 
will  and  thought,  stupefied  and  vacuous ;  he  saw  the  concu- 
bine fade,  grow  old,  abandon  herself  without  resistance  to 
the  slow  work  of  time,  let  fall  from  her  inert  hands  the 
lacerated  veil  of  illusions,  but  preserve,  nevertheless,  her 
fatal  power;  he  saw  the  deserted  house,  desolate,  silent, 
awaiting  the  supreme  visitor,  Death  ! 

He  recalled  the  shouts  of  the  little  bastards,  heard  on 
that  distant  afternoon  in  the  paternal  house.  He  thought : 

"  She  is  barren ;  her  entrails  have  been  visited  by  a  curse. 
In  it  the  germs  perish  as  in  a  fiery  furnace.  She  thus 
thwarts  and  betrays  the  most  profound  instinct  of  life." 

The  uselessness  of  his  love  appeared  to  him  like  a  mon- 
strous transgression  of  the  supreme  law.  But  since  his  love 
was  an  uneasy  sensuality  only,  why  had  he,  then,  this  char- 
acter of  ineluctable  fatality  ?  Was  not  the  instinct  of  the 
perpetuation  of  the  race  the  unique  and  true  motive  of  all 
sexual  love  ?  Was  not  this  blind  and  eternal  instinct  the 
source  of  desire,  and  should  not  desire  have  as  its  object, 
occult  or  manifest,  the  generation  prescribed  by  Nature  ? 
How  was  it,  then,  that  so  strong  a  tie  attached  him  to  the 
barren  woman  ?  Why  was  the  terrible  "  will  "  of  the  Spe- 
cies so  obstinate  in  demanding,  in  exacting,  the  vital  tribute 
of  that  organism  ravaged  by  disease  and  incapable  of  gener- 
ating ?  What  was  lacking  in  his  love  was  the  first  reason 


308  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

of  love — the  affirmation  and  the  development  of  life  beyond 
the  limits  of  individual  existence.  What  was  lacking  in 
the  woman  he  loved  was  the  highest  mystery  of  her  sex — the 
suffering  of  her  who  gives  birth.  And  what  caused  the  mis- 
ery of  both  was  precisely  that  persistent  monstrosity. 

"Aren't  you  coming  in  the  sun?"  asked  Hippolyte, 
suddenly,  turning  towards  him.  "  Look  how  I  am  standing 
it !  I  want  to  become  really  what  you  say — like  an  olive. 
Shall  I  ?" 

She  approached  the  tent,  raising  with  her  two  hands  the 
edge  of  her  long  tunic,  putting  in  her  gestures  an  almost 
lascivious  grace,  as  though  suddenly  invaded  by  languor. 

"Shall  I?" 

She  stooped  a  little  to  enter  the  tent.  Under  the  abun- 
dance of  snowy  folds,  her  thin  and  flexible  body  had  move- 
ments of  feline  grace,  exhaled  a  heat  and  odor  which  spurred 
strangely  the  disturbed  sensibility  of  the  young  man.  And, 
while  she  stretched  herself  out  on  the  mat  beside  him,  there 
fell  all  around  his  flaming  face  a  shower  of  hair,  still  wet 
with  salt  water,  and  through  which  shone  the  white  of  her 
eyes  and  the  red  of  her  lips,  like  fruits  among  foliage. 

In  her  voice,  as  on  her  face,  as  in  her  smile,  there  was  a 
shadow,  an  infinitely  mysterious  and  fascinating  shadow. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  divined  her  lover's  secret  hostility,  and 
was  getting  ready  to  triumph  over  it. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  sudden 
start.  "  No,  no  ;  don't  look  at  them  !  They  are  ugly." 

She  withdrew  her  feet,  hid  them  under  the  folds  of  her 
peignoir. 

"  No,  no.     I  forbid  you." 

She  was  vexed  and  ashamed  for  a  moment ;  she  frowned, 
as  if  she  had  surprised  in  George's  eyes  a  spark  of  the  cruel 
truth. 


tEMPUS  DEStRtJENDl.  309 

"  Unkind  man  !  "  she  said  again,  in  an  ambiguous  tone 
of  pleasantry  and  rancor. 

He  replied,  rather  enervated  : 

"  You  know  that,  in  my  eyes,  you  are  beautiful  all  over." 

And  he  made  the  gesture  as  if  to  draw  her  to  him  and 
kiss  her. 

"No;  wait.     Don't  look." 

She,  arose  and  glided  to  a  corner  of  the  tent.  Rapidly, 
with  furtive  gestures,  she  drew  on  her  long  black-silk  stock- 
ings ;  then  she  turned  round,  immodestly,  an  indefinable 
smile  hovering  on  her  lips.  And,  before  George's  eyes, 
holding  up,  one  after  the  other,  her  perfect  legs  in  their 
shining  sheath,  she  fastened  her  garters  above  each  knee. 
In  her  action  there  was  something  wilfully  lascivious,  and 
in  her  smile  there  was  a  touch  of  subtle  irony.  And  that 
mute  and  terrible  eloquence  assumed  in  the  young  man's 
eyes  this  precise  signification  :  "I  am  always  the  uncon- 
quered.  You  have  known  with  me  all  the  enjoyments  for 
which  your  endless  desire  was  thirsty,  and  I  will  clothe  my- 
self in  lies  that  will  endlessly  provoke  your  desire.  What 
matters  to  me  your  perspicacity  ?  The  veil  that  you  tear  I 
can  repair  in  an  instant,  the  bandage  that  you  pluck  off  I 
can  fasten  in  an  instant.  I  am  stronger  than  your  thought. 
I  know  the  secret  of  my  transfigurations  in  your  soul.  I 
know  the  gestures  and  the  words  that  have  the  virtue  of 
metamorphosing  me  in  your  eyes.  The  odor  of  my  skin 
has  the  power  to  dissolve  a  world  in  you." 

In  him  a  world  was  being  dissolved  while  she  drew  near, 
serpentine  and  insidious,  to  fling  herself  at  his  side  on  the 
coarse  rush  mat.  Once  more,  the  reality  was  converted 
into  a  confused  fiction  full  of  hallucinating  images.  The 
reverberation  of  the  sea  filled  the  tent  with  a  reflection  of 
gold,  mingled  a  thousand  golden  spangles  in  the  threads  of 


316  THE    TRIUMPH    Of    DEATH. 

the  tissue.  Through  the  opening  was  a  glimpse  of  the  im- 
mensity of  the  calm  sea,  the  vast  immobility  of  the  waters 
under  an  almost  lugubrious  blaze.  And,  gradually,  these 
very  appearances  faded  away. 

In  the  silence,  he  heard  nothing  more  but  the  rhythm  of 
his  own  blood ;  in  the  shade,  he  saw  nothing  but  two  large 
eyes  fixed  on  him  with  a  kind  of  fury.  She  enshrouded 
him  completely,  as  if  she  possessed  the  nature  of  a  cloud. 
And  through  all  the  pores  of  this  ardent  skin  he  inhaled  the 
marine  fragrance  like  a  salt  volatilized  through  a  flame. 
And  in  the  thickness  of  her  still  humid  hair  he  beheld  the 
mystery  of  the  deepest  forests  of  sea-weed.  And,  in  the  final 
bewilderment  of  his  conscience,  he  imagined  he  touched  the 
bottom  of  an  abyss-falling  to  his  death. 

Then  he  heard,  as  if  at  a  distance,  amid  the  rustling  of 
skirts,  Hippolyte's  voice,  which  was  saying  : 

"  Do  you  want  to  stay  a  little  longer  ?  Are  you 
asleep  ?  " 

He  opened  his  eyes;  he  murmured,  all  dazed : 

"  No,  I'm  not  asleep." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I'm  expiring." 

He  tried  to  smile.  He  caught  a  glance  of  Hippolyte's 
white  teeth.  She  said,  smiling : 

' '  Do  you  want  me  to  help  you  to  dress  ?  ' ' 

"No.  I'll  get  dressed  presently.  Go  on;  I'll  join 
you,"  he  murmured,  with  a  sleepy  tone. 

"  Then  I'll  go  back.  I'm  too  hungry.  Dress  quickly, 
and  come." 

"Yes,  immediately." 

He  started  when  he  felt  unexpectedly  Hippolyte's  lips 
on  his  lips.  He  opened  his  eyes  ;  he  tried  to  smile. 

"Have  pity!" 


TEMPUS  DESTXUENDI.  JIT 

He  heard  the  crunching  of  the  sand  under  her  receding 
footsteps.  A  heavy  silence  again  took  possession  of  the 
beach.  At  intervals,  a  light  splashing  came  from  the  edge 
of  the  sea  and  the  neighboring  rocks,  a  feeble  noise  like 
that  made  by  animals  drinking  in  a  trough. 

A  few  minutes  passed,  during  which  he  struggled  against 
an  exhaustion  that  threatened  to  turn  into  lethargy.  Fi- 
nally, he  sat  up,  not  without  effort;  he  shook  his  head  to 
dissipate  his  clouded  thoughts ;  he  looked  all  around  him 
with  bewilderment.  He  felt  in  his  whole  being  a  strange 
sensation  of  emptiness  ;  he  was  no  longer  able  to  coordinate 
his  ideas ;  he  was  almost  incapable  of  thought,  and  to  ac- 
complish any  act  he  needed  an  enormous  effort.  He  threw 
a  glance  outside  the  tent,  and  was  again  invaded  by  the 
horror  of  the  light. 

"  Oh !  if,  on  lying  down  again,  I  could  never  rise 
again.  To  die  !  Never  to  see  her  again  !"  He  felt  over- 
whelmed by  the  certainty  that  in  a  few  instants  he  must  see 
this  woman  again,  he  must  stay  near  her,  he  must  receive 
more  of  her  kisses,  he  must  hear  her  speak. 

Before  beginning  to  dress,  he  hesitated.  Several  mad 
ideas  passed  through  his  brain.  Then  he  dressed  mechani- 
cally. He  went  out  of  the  tent,  and  the  glare  of  the  light 
made  him  close  his  eyes.  Through  the  tissue  of  his  eye- 
lids he  saw  a  great  red  light.  He  had  a  slight  vertigo. 

When  he  reopened  his  eyes,  the  spectacle  of  the  external 
things  gave  him  an  inexpressible  sensation.  It  seemed  to 
him  as  if  he  saw  everything  again  after  an  indefinite  time, 
during  a  different  existence. 

The  sandy  beach,  beaten  by  the  sun,  had  the  whiteness 
of  chalk.  On  the  immense  and  lugubrious  mirror  of  the  sea 
the  incandescent  sky  seemed  to  subside,  every  second  more 
under  the  weight  of  one  of  those  gloomy  silences  that  ac- 


312  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

company  the  expectation  of  an  unknown  catastrophe.  The 
sandy  promontories,  with  their  large,  deserted  creeks,  rose 
in  the  form  of  towers  above  the  black  rocks,  their  crests 
wooded  with  olive-trees  that  stood  out  against  the  torrid 
sky  in  the  attitudes  of  anger  or  madness.  Stretched  out  on 
the  rocks,  like  some  monster  ready  to  spring  on  its  prey,  the 
Trabocco,  with  its  numerous  machines,  had  a  formidable 
aspect.  In  the  entanglement  of  the  beams  and  ropes,  one 
could  distinguish  the  fishermen  stooping  towards  the  waters, 
steady,  motionless,  like  bronzes,  and  over  their  tragic  lives 
hung  the  mortal  spell. 

All  at  once,  amid  the  silence,  a  voice  struck  the  young 
man's  ears.  It  was  the  woman  calling  him  from  the  height 
of  the  Hermitage. 

He  started;  he  turned  round  with  an  impressive  palpita- 
tion. The  voice  repeated  its  call,  limpid  and  strong,  as  if 
it  wished  to  affirm  its  power. 

"Come!" 

While  he  climbed  up  the  hill,  the  smoky  mouth  of  one 
of  the  tunnels  cast  in  the  air  a  rumbling  reverberation 
which  resounded  throughout  the  gulf.  He  stopped  at  the 
edge  of  the  railroad,  taken  anew  with  a  slight  dizziness; 
and  the  flash  of  an  insane  idea  crossed  his  wearied  brain  : 
"  To  lie  down  across  the  rails.  .  .  .  The  end  of  all 
in  a  second  !  " 

Deafening,  rapid,  and  sinister,  the  train  which  passed 
swept  in  his  face  the  wind  it  displaced;  then,  whistling  and 
rumbling,  it  disappeared  in  the  mouth  of  the  opposite  tun- 
nel, the  black  smoke  curling  up  in  the  sky. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FROM  dawn  until  twilight,  the  songs  of  the  reapers — men 
and  women — alternated  on  the  slopes  of  the  fecund  hill. 
Masculine  choruses,  with  a  bacchic  vehemence,  were  cele- 
brating their  joy  at  the  abundant  feast  and  the  richness  of 
the  old  wine.  For  the  men  of  the  scythe,  the  time  of  the 
harvest  was  a  time  of  abundancy.  Hour  after  hour,  from 
dawn  to  twilight,  according  to  the  old-time  custom,  they 
interrupted  their  work  to  eat  and  drink  on  the  field  of  stub- 
ble, among  the  newly  made  sheaves,  in  honor  of  the  gener- 
ous master.  And  each  took  from  his  porringer  the  share  of 
nourishment  sufficient  to  satiate  one  of  the  women.  Thus,  at 
the  hour  of  the  repast,  Boaz  had  said  to  Ruth  the  Moabite  : 
i "  Come  thou  hither,  and  eat  of  the  bread,  and  dip  thou 
thy  morsel  in  the  vinegar.  And  Ruth  came  and  sat  down 
beside  the  reapers,  and  was  sufficed." 

But  the  feminine  choruses  were  prolonged  in  almost  relig- 
ious cadences,  with  a  slow  and  solemn  sweetness,  revealing 
the  original  holiness  of  the  alimentary  work,  the  primitive 
nobility  of  this  task,  where,  on  the  ancestral  soil,  the  sweat 
of  man  consecrated  the  nativity  of  the  bread. 

George  heard  them  and  followed  them,  his  soul  attentive  ; 
and  gradually  a  beneficent  and  unhoped-for  influence  pene- 
trated him.  His  soul  seemed  to  gradually  dilate,  by  an 
aspiration  always  broader  and  more  serene  in  proportion 
as  the  wave  of  the  chant,  propagated  in  the  still  torrid 
noons,  became  purer,  but  in  it  the  hope  of  the  pacifying 


314  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

night  began  to  spread  a  species  of  ecstatic  calm.  It  was  a 
renewed  aspiration  towards  the  sources  of  life,  towards  the 
Origins.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  supreme  trembling  of  his 
youth  attacked  in  the  deepest  part  of  its  substantial  energy, 
the  supreme  panting  towards  the  regaining  of  happiness  lost, 
henceforth,  forever. 

The  harvest-time  was  drawing  to  its  close.  Passing 
along  the  mown  fields,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  nice  cus- 
toms that  seemed  to  be  the  rites  of  a  georgic  liturgy.  One 
day  he  stopped  close  to  a  field  already  despoiled,  where 
the  haymakers  had  just  constructed  the  last  haystack,  and 
he  was  a  witness  to  the  ceremony. 

On  the  things  exhausted  by  the  heat  hovered  the  limpid 
and  sweet  hour  that  was  about  to  gather  in  its  crystalline 
sphere  the  impalpable  ashes  of  the  consumed  day. 

The  field  was  laid  out  in  a  parallelogram,  on  a  tableland 
girt  with  gigantic  olive-trees,  through  the  branches  of 
which  were  glimpses  of  the  blue  band  of  the  Adriatic,  mys- 
terious as  the  velum  perceived  in  the  temple  behind  the 
silver  palms.  The  high  haystacks  were  erected  at  intervals 
in  the  form  of  cones,  massive,  and  opulent  with  tne  rich- 
ness heaped  up  by  the  arms  of  men,  celebrated  by  the  songs 
of  women.  When  the  toil  was  ended,  the  band  of  hay- 
makers made  a  circle  around  its  chief  in  the  centre  of  the 
field.  They  were  robust,  sunburnt  men,  dressed  in  linen. 
On  their  arms,  on  their  legs,  on  their  bare  feet,  they  had 
deformities  which  the  long  and  slow  endurance  of  manual 
labor  imprints  on  limbs  that  toil.  In  the  fist  of  each 
man  shone  a  scythe,  curved  and  thin  as  the  moon  in  its  first 
quarter.  From  time  to  time,  with  a  simple  gesture  of  their 
disengaged  hand,  they  wiped  the  sweat  from  their  brows,  and 
with  it  sprinkled  the  ground  where  the  straw  was  shining 
under  the  oblique  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  315 

In  his  turn,  the  chief  made  the  same  gesture ;  then,  rais- 
ing his  hand  as  if  to  bless,  he  cried,  in  his  sonorous  voice, 
rich  in  rhythm  and  assonance  : 

"  Let's  leave  the  field,  in  the  name  of  the  Father  and  of 
the  Son  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost !  " 

In  chorus,  the  men  of  the  scythe  replied,  with  a  great  cry: 

"Amen!" 

And  the  chief  went  on  : 

"  Blessed  be  our  master,  and  blessed  be  our  mistress  !  " 

The  men  replied : 

"Amen!" 

And  the  chief,  in  a  voice  that  gradually  gathered  strength 
and  fire  : 

"  Blessed  be  he  who  brought  us  good  food  to  eat." 

"Amen!" 

"  Blessed  be  he  who  says  :  '  Don't  put  water  in  the  wine 
of  the  haymaker  ! '  " 

"Amen!" 

"  Blessed  be  the  employer  who  says  to  his  lady :  '  Give 
without  measuring,  and  put  sapor  in  the  wine  of  the  hay- 
maker!'" 

"Amen!" 

The  benedictions  extended  from  one  to  another :  to  him 
who  had  killed  the  sheep,  to  him  who  had  washed  the 
herbs  and  vegetables,  to  him  who  had  polished  the  copper 
saucepan,  to  him  who  had  seasoned  the  meats  with  spices. 
And  the  chief,  in  the  fire  of  enthusiasm,  in  the  sudden  trans- 
port of  a  sort  of  poetic  fury,  expressed  himself,  all  at  once, 
in  couplets.  The  band  replied  to  him  by  immense  clamors 
that  reverberated  through  all  the  creeks,  while  on  the  iron 
of  the  scythes  the  flashes  of  the  twilight,  and  the  sheaves 
arranged  on  the  top  of  the  stacks,  had  the  appearance  of 
flames. 


316  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

"  Blessed  be  the  woman  who  sings  beautiful  songs  while 
bringing  pitchers  of  old  wine  !  " 

"Amen!" 

There  was  a  thunderclap  of  joy.  Then  all  were  silent, 
and  watched  approach  the  chorus  of  the  women,  bearers  of 
the  last  gifts  of  the  mown  field. 

The  women,  in  double  file,  were  singing,  carrying  in 
their  arms  the  large  painted  jars.  And  the  uninitiated 
spectator,  seeing  them  advance  between  the  olive-trees,  as 
through  a  colonnade,  against  the  maritime  background, 
might  imagine  he  saw  one  of  those  votive  images  that 
develop  harmoniously  in  bas-relief  on  the  friezes  of  the 
temples  or  around  the  sarcophagi. 

As  he  went  back  to  the  house  this  image  of  beauty 
accompanied  him  along  the  road,  while  he  slowly  wended 
his  way  amid  the  illusions  of  the  evening,  in  which 
were  still  floating  the  waves  of  the  choruses.  At  a  bend 
in  the  road,  he  stopped  to  listen  to  a  melodious  voice  that 
was  approaching  and  that  he  seemed  to  recognize.  As  soon 
as  he  recognized  it  he  started  joyfully  :  it  was  the  voice  of 
Favetta,  the  young  singer  with  the  falconlike  eyes,  with 
the  vibrating  voice  that  always  awoke  in  him  the  memory 
of  that  delicious  May  morning,  resplendent  on  the  labyrinth 
of  the  blossoming  furze,  on  the  solitude  of  the  garden  of 
gold  in  which,  to  his  surprise,  he  thought  he  had  discov- 
ered the  secret  of  joy. 

Without  suspecting  the  presence  of  the  stranger,  hidden 
by  a  hedge,  Favetta  advanced,  leading  a  cow  by  the  tether. 
And  she  sang,  her  head  high,  her  mouth  open  towards  the 
sky,  the  full  light  on  her  face;  and  from  her  throat  the 
song  gushed  forth,  fluid,  limpid,  crystal  as  a  stream.  Be- 
hind her  the  fine,  snowy  beast  ambled  gently,  and  at 
each  step  its  fetlock  undulated,  and  its  massive  udder, 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  317 

swollen  with  milk  by  the  pasture,  dangled  between  its 
legs. 

When  she  perceived  the  stranger,  the  singer  stopped  sing- 
ing, and  seemed  about  to  halt ;  but  he  went  to  meet  her  with 
a  joyous  air,  as  if  he  had  met  a  friend  of  the  happy  days. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Favetta  ?  "  he  cried. 

Hearing  herself  addressed  by  her  name,  she  blushed  and 
smiled  with  embarrassment.  "  I'm  taking  the  cow  to  the 
shed,"  she  replied. 

As  she  had  suddenly  slowed  down  her  step,  the  snout  of 
the  beast  grazed  her  hips,  and  her  bold  bust  stood  out 
between  the  large  horns  as  in  the  crescent  of  a  lyre. 

"  You're  always  singing,"  said  George,  admiring  her  in 
this  attitude. 

"Ah!  signor,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  "if  we  couldn't 
sing,  what  could  we  do  ?  " 

"  Do  you  remember  that  morning  when  you  plucked  the 
furze  flowers  ?  ' ' 

"  The  first  flowers  for  your  lady  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  do  you  remember  ?  " 

"  I  remember." 

"  Sing  again  for  me  the  song  you  sang  that  day  !  " 

"  I  can't  sing  it  alone." 

"Well,  sing  another." 

"  Like  that,  all  at  once,  in  your  presence?  I'm  ashamed. 
I'll  sing  on  the  road.  Addio,  signor." 

"  Addio,  Favetta." 

And  she  resumed  her  way  along  the  path,  dragging  the 
peaceable  beast  after  her.  When  she  had  gone  a  little  way, 
she  struck  up  the  song  with  all  the  strength  of  her  voice 
that  invaded  the  surrounding  luminous  country. 

The  sun  had  just  set,  and  an  extraordinarily  vivid  light 
was  shed  over  the  coasts  and  over  the  sea ;  an  immense  wave 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

of  impalpable  gold  mounted  from  the  occidental  sky  to  the 
zenith  and  redescended  to  the  opposite  side,  the  glassy 
transparency  of  which  it  penetrated  with  infinite  slowness. 
Gradually  the  Adriatic  became  more  clear  and  more  gentle, 
approaching  the  green  hue  of  the  first  leaves  of  the  new 
shoots  of  willows.  Alone,  the  red  sails,  as  superb  as  if 
they  were  of  purple,  broke  the  diffused  light. 

"  It's  a  holiday,"  thought  George,  dazzled  by  the  splen- 
did sunset,  feeling  palpitate  around  him  the  joy  of  life. 
Where  does  the  human  creature  breathe  for  whom  the 
whole  day,  from  dawn  to  twilight,  should  not  be  a  Holiday 
consecrated  by  some  new  conquest  ? 

On  the  hill,  the  songs  in  honor  of  the  nativity  of  the 
bread  continued  and  alternated.  The  long  feminine  files 
appeared  on  the  slopes  and  disappeared.  Here  and  there, 
in  the  still  air,  columns  of  smoke  rose  slowly  from  invisible 
fires.  The  spectacle  grew  solemn  and  seemed  to  sink  back 
into  the  mystery  of  the  primitive  centuries,  in  the  holiness 
of  a  celebration  of  rural  Dionysiacs. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

SINCE  the  tragic  night  on  which  Candia,  lowering  her 
voice,  had  spoken  of  the  witchcraft  that  hung  over  the  men 
of  the  Trabocco,  that  great,  whitish  framework,  stretched 
along  on  the  rocks,  had  more  than  once  attracted  the  stran- 
gers' attention  and  excited  their  curiosity.  In  the  crescent 
of  the  little  musical  bay,  that  bristling  and  treacherous 
form,  continually  lying  in  ambush,  seemed  to  deny  the  be- 
nignity of  the  solitude.  At  the  burning  and  motionless 
noon-times,  at  the  misty  twilights,  it  often  took  on  for- 
midable aspects.  At  times,  when  all  was  still,  one  could 
hear  the  grinding  of  the  capstan  and  the  creaking  of  the 
timber.  During  the  moonless  nights,  the  red  light  of  the 
torches  was  seen  reflected  by  the  water. 

On  an  afternoon  of  oppressive  idleness,  George  pro- 
posed to  Hippolyte  : 

"  Shall  we  go  and  visit  the  Trabocco  ?  " 

She  answered : 

"  We'll  go,  if  you  like.  But  how  can  I  cross  the  bridge  ? 
I  have  already  tried  it  once." 

"  I  will  lead  you  by  the  hand." 

"  The  plank  is  too  narrow." 

"We'll  try." 

They  went  there.  They  descended  by  the  path.  At  the 
turn  they  found  a  sort  of  stairway  hewn  in  the  granite, 
har-^/y  practicable,  and  the  irregular  steps  of  which  stretched 
fout  «s  far  as  the  reefs,  at  the  end  of  the  shaky  bridge. 


320  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

"  Vou  see  !  How  can  I  manage  ?  "  said  Hippolyte  re- 
gretfully. "  Even  looking  at  it  makes  my  head  swim." 

The  first  portion  of  the  bridge  was  composed  of  a  single 
plank,  very  narrow,  upheld  by  stanchions  fixed  on  the  rock ; 
the  other  part,  broader,  was  formed  of  transverse  thin  deal 
boards,  of  an  almost  silvery  whiteness,  worm-eaten,  brittle, 
badly  joined,  so  thin  that  they  seemed  likely  to  break 
under  the  slightest  pressure  of  the  foot. 

"Don't  you  want  to  try  it  ?  "  asked  George,  with  an 
inner  sense  of  strange  relief  on  finding  that  Hippolyte 
would  never  succeed  in  accomplishing  the  perilous  passage. 
"  Look;  someone  is  coming  to  lend  us  a  hand." 

A  half-naked  child  ran  toward  them  from  the  platform, 
agile  as  a  cat,  brown  as  a  rich  golden  bronze.  Beneath  his 
unfaltering  foot  the  deal  boards  creaked,  the  rafters  bent. 
Arrived  at  the  end  of  the  bridge,  near  the  strangers,  he 
encouraged  them  by  energetic  gestures  to  confide  in  him, 
looking  up  at  them  with  his  piercing  eyes  like  the  bird  at 
its  prey. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  try  ?  "  repeated  George,  smiling. 

Irresolute,  she  advanced  one  foot  on  the  shaking  plank, 
looked  at  the  rocks  and  water,  then  drew  back,  incapable 
of  conquering  her  agitation. 

"  I  fear  vertigo,"  she  said.     "  I  am  sure  I  should  fall." 

She  added,  with  manifest  regret : 

"  Go,  go  alone.     You're  not  afraid  ?  " 

"  No.     But  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  sit  down  in  the  shade  and  wait  for  you." 

She  added  again,  with  hesitation,  as  if  to  try  and  retain 
him : 

"  But  why  do  you  go  there  ?  " 

"  I'm  going.     I'm  curious  to  see." 

She  seemed  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  follow  him,  vexed  at 


TEMPUS    DESTRUENDI.  32  I 

letting  him  go  to  a  place  which  she  could  not  reach  herself ; 
and  what  seemed  to  chagrin  and  vex  her  was,  not  only 
having  to  renounce  a  curiosity  and  pleasure,  but  also  some 
other  cause,  not  distinct.  What  made  her  suffer,  also,  was 
the  temporary  obstacle  that  was  about  to  be  interposed 
between  her  lover  and  herself,  that  obstacle  over  which  she 
was  powerless  to  climb. 

So  essential  had  become  the  necessity  of  holding  her 
lover  always  attached  to  her  by  a  sensible  bond,  to  be  with 
him  in  uninterrupted  contact,  to  dominate  him,  to  possess 
him  ! 

She  said,  a  scarcely  perceptible  note  of  anger  in  her  voice  : 

"Go,  go  along." 

George  became  cognizant  of  a  sentiment  in  himself  that 
contrasted  with  the  instinctive  sentiment  of  Hippolyte ;  it 
was  a  sort  of  relief  to  establish  beyond  doubt  that  there 
was  a  place  where  Hippolyte  could  not  follow  him,  a  refuge 
completely  inaccessible  to  the  Enemy,  a  retreat  defended 
by  the  rocks  and  by  the  sea  where  he  could  at  last  find  a 
few  hours  of  real  repose.  And  these  two  impressions  of 
their  souls,  although  indistinct  and  even  somewhat  puerile, 
but  certainly  opposed,  demonstrated  the  actual  position  of 
the  lovers  toward  one  another :  the  one,  a  conscious  victim 
destined  to  perish ;  the  other,  an  unconscious  and  caressing 
executioner. 

"  I'll  go,"  said  George,  with  a  shade  of  provocation  in 
his  voice  and  attitude.  "  Good-by." 

Although  he  did  not  feel  sure  of  himself,  he  refused  the 
child's  assistance,  and  was  very  careful  to  take  bold  and 
sure  steps,  not  to  hesitate,  not  to  vacillate  on  the  shaking 
plank.  As  soon  as  he  had  put  foot  on  the  wider  part,  he 
hastened  his  steps,  still  preoccupied  by  Hippolyte's  look, 
instinctively  giving  to  his  efforts  the  heat  of /a  hostile  reac- 

21 


322  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

tion.  When  he  trod  the  planks  of  the  platform,  he  felt  the 
illusory  sensation  of  finding  himself  on  the  bridge  of  a 
ship.  In  one  second,  the  freshness  of  the  short,  splashing 
sea  that  broke  on  the  rocks  revived  in  his  memory  certain 
fragments  of  the  life  that  he  had  lived  on  the  Don  Juan; 
and  he  felt  through  all  his  being  a  sudden  thrill  at  the 
chimerical  idea  of  raising  the  anchor. 

Immediately  after,  his  gaze  was  attracted  to  the  surround- 
ing objects,  the  slightest  details  of  which  he  remarked  with 
his  usual  lucidity. 

Turchino  had  saluted  him  abruptly,  with  a  gesture  that 
neither  word  nor  smile  softened,  as  if  no  event  whatever, 
however  unusual  and  extraordinary  it  might  be,  would  have 
the  power  to  interrupt  even  for  a  second  the  terrible  preoc- 
cupation that  appeared  on  his  terrene  face,  almost  chin- 
less,  scarcely  larger  than  a  fist,  with  a  long,  prominent  nose, 
pointed  like  the  snout  of  a  pike,  between  two  small,  glitter- 
ing eyes. 

The  same  preoccupation  was  legible  in  the  faces  of  his 
two  sons,  who  also  saluted  in  silence,  and  resumed  their 
work  without  laying  aside  their  immutable  sadness.  They 
were  boys  of  over  twenty,  fleshless,  sunburnt,  agitated  by  a 
continual  muscular  restlessness,  like  demoniacs.  All  their 
movements  had  an  air  of  convulsive  contraction,  of  starts ; 
and  beneath  the  skin  of  their  chinless  faces  the  muscles 
could  be  seen,  at  moments,  trembling. 

"  Is  the  fishing  good  ?"  asked  George,  pointing  to  the 
large,  immerged  net,  whose  corners  could  be  seen  at  the  sur- 
face of  the  water. 

"Nothing  to-day,  signer,"  murmured  Turchino,  in  a 
tone  of  suppressed  anger. 

After  a  pause,  he  added : 

"  Who  knows  ?     Perhaps  you've  brought  us  good  luck." 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  323 

"  Draw  up  the  net.     Let's  see." 

His  sons  began  to  manoeuvre  the  capstan. 

Through  the  interstices  of  the  planks  could  be  seen  the 
reflecting  and  foaming  waves.  In  a  corner  of  the  platform 
stood  a  low  cabin  with  a  straw  roof,  the  summit  of  which 
had  a  layer  of  red  tiles,  and  decorated  with  a  piece  of  sculp- 
tured oak  in  the  form  of  a  bull's  head  with  two  large,  con- 
necting horns — a  charm  against  witchcraft.  Other  amulets 
were  suspended  from  the  roof,  mingled  with  wooden  disks, 
on  which  were  glued  with  pitch  pieces  of  mirror,  round  as 
eyes ;  and  a  bunch  of  four-pronged  rusty  forks  lay  before 
the  low  door.  To  right  and  left,  two  large  vertical  masts 
were  erected,  fixed  on  the  rock,  fastened  at  their  bases  by 
stakes  of  all  dimensions,  that  intercrossed  and  mingled, 
riveted  to  one  another  by  enormous  nails,  bound  by  iron  wire 
and  cordage,  strengthened  in  a  thousand  ways  against  the  rage 
of  the  sea.  Two  other  horizontal  masts  crossed  the  first  two 
and  stretched  out  like  bowsprits  beyond  the  rocks,  over  the 
deep  water  teeming  with  fish.  At  the  forked  extremities  of 
the  four  masts  hung  pulleys  provided  with  cords  correspond- 
ing to  the  corners  of  the  square  net.  Other  cords  passed 
through  other  pulleys,  at  the  end  of  smaller  spars ;  as  far  as 
the  most  distant  rocks,  the  stakes  driven  in  sustained  the  re- 
enforced  cables ;  innumerable  planks,  nailed  on  the  beams, 
strengthened  the  weakest  points.  The  long  and  obstinate 
struggle  against  the  fury  and  treacherousness  of  the  waves 
was  as  if  written  on  this  enormous  carcass  by  means  of  these 
knots,  these  nails,  this  machinery.  The  machine  seemed 
to  have  a  life  of  its  own,  to  have  the  air  and  figure  of  an  ani- 
mated body.  The  wood,  exposed  for  years  to  sun,  rain, 
and  tempest,  showed  all  its  fibres,  exhibited  all  it  rugos- 
ities and  knottiness,  revealed  every  part  of  its  resistant 
structure,  was  denuded,  was  consumed,  was  white  like  a 


324  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

tibia,  or  shining  like  silver,  or  grayish  like  silex,  acquired 
a  special  character  and  significance,  an  imprint  just  as  dis- 
tinct as  that  of  a  person  on  whom  old  age  and  suffering 
have  achieved  their  cruel  work. 

The  capstan  creaked  as  it  turned  by  the  impulsion  of  the 
four  bars,  and  the  whole  machine  trembled  and  creaked 
under  the  effort,  while  the  vast  net  gradually  emerged  witb 
golden  reflections  from  the  green  depth. 

"  Nothing  !  "  grumbled  the  father,  on  seeing  the  empty 
bottom  of  the  net  rise  to  the  surface  of  the  water. 

The  sons  released  the  bars  together,  and  with  still  louder 
creakings  the  capstan  began  to  turn,  beating  the  air  with  its 
four  brutish  arms,  that  could  have  cut  a  man  in  twain.  The 
net  replunged  into  the  water.  All  were  silent.  In  the 
silence  was  heard  only  the  breaking  of  the  sea  against  the 
rocks. 

The  weight  of  witchcraft  crushed  these  miserable  lives. 
George  had  lost  all  curiosity  to  question  them,  to  discover, 
to  know ;  but  he  felt  that  this  taciturn  and  tragic  company 
would  soon  possess  for  him  the  attraction  of  dolorous  affin- 
ity. Was  he  not,  too,  the  victim  of  a  malefice?  And  he 
looked  instinctively  toward  the  beach,  where  appeared  the 
figure  of  the  woman  outlined  against  a  rock. 


CHAPTER  V. 

HE  returned  to  the  Trabocco  almost  every  day,  at  differ- 
ent hours.  It  became  the  favorite  place  for  his  dreams  and 
his  meditations.  The  fishermen  had  become  accustomed  to 
his  visits;  they  received  him  respectfully,  prepared  in 
the  shade  of  the  hut  a  couch  for  him,  made  from  an  old  sail 
smelling  of  tar.  On  his  part,  he  was  not  illiberal  toward 
them. 

In  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  waters,  in  watching  the 
top  of  the  mast,  immovable  in  the  azure,  he  evoked  his  nau- 
tical recollections,  relived  his  wandering  life  of  long-distant 
summers,  that  life  of  limitless  liberty  that  to-day  seemed 
to  him  singularly  beautiful  and  almost  chimerical.  He 
recalled  his  last  voyage  on  the  Adriatic,  several  months 
after  the  Epiphany  of  Love,  during  a  period  of  sorrows  and 
poetic  enthusiasms,  under  the  influence  of  Percy  Shelley, 
of  that  divine  Ariel  whom  the  sea  had  transfigured  "  into 
something  rich  and  strange. ' '  And  he  recalled  the  debarka- 
tion at  Rimini,  the  entry  into  Malamocco,  the  anchorage  be- 
fore the  Schiavoni  quays,  all  gilded  by  the  September  sun. 
Where,  now,  was  his  old  travelling  companion,  Adolpho 
Astorgi  ?  Where  was  the  Don  Juan  ?  The  preceding 
week  he  had  received  news  of  it  from  Chios,  in  a  letter 
that  seemed  still  impregnated  with  the  odor  of  mastic,  and 
which  announced  the  coming  shipment  of  a  quantity  of 
Oriental  confections. 

Adolpho  Astorgi  was  truly  a  fraternal  spirit,   the  only 


326  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

one  with  whom  he  had  been  able  to  live  a  little  time  in 
complete  communion,  without  feeling  the  embarrassment, 
uneasiness,  and  repugnance  that  prolonged  familiarity  with 
his  other  friends  almost  always  caused  him.  How  unfortu- 
nate he  should  be  so  far  away  now  !  And  at  times  he  rep- 
resented him  to  himself  as  an  unexpected  deliverer  who 
would  appear  with  his  vessel  in  the  waters  of  San  Vito  to 
propose  escape  to  him. 

In  his  incurable  weakness,  in  this  total  abolition  of 
active  will,  he  lingered  at  times  in  dreams  of  this  kind;  he 
implored  the  arrival  of  a  strong  and  imperious  man  who 
would  roughly  rouse  him,  and  who,  breaking  his  chains, 
with  an  abrupt  and  definite  blow,  forever,  would  enliven 
him,  carry  him  off,  confine  him  in  some  lost  region,  where 
he  would  be  unknown  to  everybody,  where  he  would  know 
no  one,  and  where  he  could  either  begin  life  over  again  or 
die  a  less  hopeless  death. 

Die  he  must.  He  knew  to  what  he  was  condemned, 
knew  it  to  be  irrevocable ;  and  he  was  convinced  that  the 
final  act  would  be  accomplished  during  the  week  preceding 
\hefifth  anniversary,  between  the  last  days  of  July  and  the 
first  days  of  August.  Since  the  temptation  that,  in  the  hor- 
ror of  the  torrid  noon,  before  the  bright  rails,  had  traversed 
his  soul  like  a  flash,  it  even  seemed  to  him  that  the  means 
were  already  found.  He  had  listened  intently,  ceaselessly, 
to  the  rumbling  of  the  train,  and  he  felt  a  strange  unrest 
when  the  time  of  its  passage  approached.  As  one  of  the 
tunnels  crossed  the  point  of  the  Trabocco,  he  could,  from 
his  pallet,  hear  the  dull  noise  that  made  the  entire  eminence 
tremble ;  and  at  times,  when  he  was  distracted  by  other 
thoughts,  he  experienced  a  start  of  fear,  as  if  he  had  sud- 
denly heard  the  rumbling  of  his  destiny. 

Was  it  not  the  same  thought  that  reigned  in  him  and  in 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  327 

these  taciturn  men  ?  Did  not  both  they  and  he  feel  a  sim- 
ilar chill  in  their  hearts,  even  in  the  most  burning  heat  of 
the  dog-days  ?  It  was  perhaps  this  affinity  that  made  him 
love  this  place  and  this  company.  On  the  musical  waters, 
he  let  himself  be  lulled  in  the  arms  of  the  phantom  created 
by  himself,  while  the  will  to  live  grew  gradually  less,  as  the 
heat  abandons  a  corpse. 

The  great  calms  of  July  had  come.  The  sea  extended 
before  the  view  all  white,  milky,  greenish  here  and  there 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  shore.  A  mist,  slightly  tinted  with 
violet,  paled  the  distant  coasts  :  Cape  Moro,  the  Nicchiola, 
Cape  Ortona,  the  Vasto  Point.  The  scarcely  perceptible 
undulations  of  the  smooth  sea  produced  between  the  rocks 
a  deep-toned  harmony,  measured  by  equal  pauses.  Holding 
himself  at  the  extremity  of  one  of  the  long,  horizontal  masts, 
the  child  acted  as  a  lookout ;  with  watchful  eye  he  scruti- 
nized beneath  him  the  mirror  of  the  wave,  and,  from  time 
to  time,  to  entice  the  frightened  fish  into  entering  the  net, 
he  threw  a  stone,  the  light  splash  of  which  increased  the 
surrounding  melancholy. 

At  times,  the  visitor  dozed  beneath  the  caress  of  the 
slow  rhythms.  These  brief  slumbers  were  the  only  com- 
pensation for  his  sleepless  nights.  And  he  had  the  habit  of 
pretending  this  need  of  repose,  so  that  Hippolyte  might 
permit  him  to  rest  on  the  Trabocco  as  long  as  he  pleased. 
George  assured  her  that  he  could  not  sleep  elsewhere  than 
on  those  planks,  amid  the  exhalations  of  the  rocks,  amid  the 
music  of  the  sea. 

To  this  music  he  lent  an  ear  more  and  more  attentive 
and  subtle.  From  now  on  he  knew  all  its  mysteries,  under- 
stood all  its  significations.  The  feeble  splash  of  the  surf, 
like  the  lingual  sound  of  a  flock  quenching  its  thirst ;  the 
great,  sudden  roar  of  a  giant  wave,  which,  arriving  from 


328  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

the  offing,  meets  and  breaks  the  wave  refracted  from  the 
shore ;  the  most  humble  note,  the  most  superb  note,  and 
the  innumerable  intermediate  scales,  and  the  diverse 
measures  of  the  intervals,  and  the  most  simple  chords,  and 
the  most  complex  chords,  and  all  the  powers  of  this  pro- 
found marine  orchestra  in  the  sonorous  gulf — he  knew  all, 
he  understood  all. 

Mysterious,  the  twilight  symphony  developed  and  swelled, 
very  slowly,  very  slowly,  beneath  a  sky  of  chaste  violets,  and 
between  the  ethereal  clusters  of  which  shone  the  first  timid 
glances  of  the  constellations  still  covered  by  a  veil.  Here 
and  there,  errant  breezes  raised  and  pushed  the  billows, 
rare  at  first,  then  more  frequent,  then  weaker ;  they  raised 
and  pushed  the  waves  whose  delicate  crests  blossomed, 
stole  a  glint  from  the  twilight,  foamed  a  moment,  and  fell 
back  languidly.  Now  like  the  dull  sound  of  cymbals, 
now  like  the  sound  of  silver  disks  clashed  against  one 
another,  such  was  the  sound  produced  in  the  silence  by  those 
falling  and  expiring  waves.  New  billows  arose,  engen- 
dered by  a  stronger  gust,  curved  limpidly,  bore  in  their 
curvature  the  grace  of  the  closing  day,  broke  with  a  sort  of 
indolence,  like  restless  white  rose-trees  shedding  their 
leaves,  and  leaving  durable  foam,  like  petals,  on  the  mirror 
that  stretched  out  where  they  disappeared  forever.  Still 
others  arose,  increased  in  velocity  and  strength,  approached 
the  shore,  reached  it  with  a  triumphant  roar  followed  by  a 
diffused  murmur  similar  to  the  rustling  of  dry  leaves.  And, 
while  this  illusionary  rustling  of  the  unreal  forest  lasted, 
other  waves,  over  there,  over  there,  on  the  crescent  of  the 
gulf,  unfurled  at  constantly  diminishing  distances,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  same  murmur,  so  that  the  sonorous  zone  seemed 
to  extend  to  the  infinite  by  the  perpetual  vibrations  of  a 
myriad  of  dry  leaves. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  329 

The  water  rushed  on  the  unshakable  rocks  with  the  im- 
petuous warmth  of  love  or  anger;  it  dashed  over  them 
roaring,  washed  over  them  foaming,  invaded  with  its 
liquidity  the  most  secret  crevices.  It  seemed  that  an  ultra- 
sovereign  natural  soul  was  filling  with  its  frantic  perturba- 
tion an  instrument  as  vast  and  multiple  as  an  organ,  guilty 
of  every  discordance,  touching  all  the  notes  of  joy  and 
pain. 

The  water  laughed,  moaned,  prayed,  sang,  caressed, 
sobbed,  threatened — by  turns  joyous,  plaintive,  humble, 
ironical,  coaxing,  dejected,  cruel.  It  dashed  to  the  sum- 
mit of  the  highest  rock,  to  fill  the  little  cavity  round  as 
a  votive  cup;  it  crept  into  the  oblique  crevice  where 
swarmed  the  mollusks ;  it  sank  into  the  soft  carpets  of  coral- 
line, tearing  them  and  creeping  as  lightly  as  a  serpent  on  a 
bed  of  moss.  The  regular  dripping  of  the  waters  which 
ooze  in  the  occult  cave,  the  rhythmic  overflow  of  the  springs 
similar  to  the  pulsation  of  a  vast  heart,  the  harsh  splashing 
of  the  streams  on  the  steep  declivity,  the  dull  rumbling  of 
the  torrent  imprisoned  between  two  walls  of  granite,  the 
reiterated  thunder  of  the  river  precipitated  from  the 
heights  of  the  cataract — all  these  sounds  produced  by  run- 
ning waters  on  the  inert  stone  and  all  the  sports  of  their 
echoes,  the  sea  imitated.  The  tender  word  that  one  mur- 
murs apart  in  the  shade,  the  sigh  exhaled  by  a  mortal 
anguish,  the  clamor  of  a  multitude  buried  in  the  depths  of 
a  catacomb,  the  sob  of  a  titanic  bosom,  arrogant  and  cruel 
derision — all  these  sounds  produced  by  the  human  mouth 
when  sad  or  gay,  the  sea  imitated.  The  nocturnal  choruses 
of  the  spirits  with  the  aerial  tongues,  the  whispering  of  the 
phantoms  put  to  flight  by  the  dawn,  the  suppressed  grins  of 
fluid  and  malevolent  creatures  in  ambush  on  the  threshold 
of  their  lairs,  the  calls  of  vocal  flowers  in  sensual  paradises, 


330  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

the  magic  dance  in  the  moonlight — all  these  sounds  that 
the  ears  of  the  poets  listen  to  in  secret,  all  the  enchant- 
ments of  the  antique  siren,  the  sea  imitated.  One  and 
multiple,  elusive  and  imperishable,  it  enclosed  in  itself  all 
the  languages  of  Life  and  Dreamland. 

In  the  attentive  mind  of  the  auditor  it  seemed  like  the 
resurrection  of  a  world.  The  grandeur  of  the  marine  sym- 
phony revived  in  him  faith  in  the  unlimited  power  of 
music.  He  was  stupefied  at  having  been  able  to  deprive 
his  soul  so  long  of  this  daily  nourishment,  of  having 
renounced  the  only  means  conceded  to  man  to  free  himself 
from  the  deception  of  appearances  and  to  discover  in  the 
inner  universe  of  the  soul  the  real  essence  of  things.  He 
was  stupefied  at  having  been  able  to  neglect  so  long  this 
religious  cult,  which,  after  Demetrius's  example,  he  had 
practised  with  so  much  fervor  since  the  first  years  of  his 
infancy.  For  Demetrius  and  for  himself,  had  not  music 
been  a  religion  ?  Had  it  not  revealed  to  both  the  mystery 
of  the  supreme  life  ?  To  both  it  had  repeated,  but  with  a 
different  sense,  the  words  of  Christ:  "  My  kingdom  is  not 
of  this  world." 

And  he  reappeared  to  his  mind,  a  mild,  meditative  man, 
with  a  face  full  of  a  virile  melancholy,  and  a  single  white 
curl  in  the  centre  of  his  forehead,  among  the  black  hair, 
giving  him  an  odd  appearance. 

Once  more  George  felt  himself  penetrated  by  the  super- 
natural fascination  which  that  man,  existing  outside  of 
life,  exercised  upon  him  from  the  bottom  of  the  tomb. 
Distant  things  came  back  to  his  memory  similar  to  indis- 
tinct waves  of  harmony ;  elements  of  thought  received  from 
that  teacher  seemed  to  take  vague  forms  of  rhythm ;  the 
ideal  sceptre  of  the  defunct  appeared  to  be  transfigured 
musically,  to  lose  its  visible  outlines,  to  reenter  into  the 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  331 

profound  unity  of  the  being,  into  that  being  which  the 
solitary  musician,  in  the  light  of  his  inspiration,  had  dis- 
covered under  the  diversity  of  the  Appearances. 

"Without  doubt,"  he  thought,  "it  is  music  that  ini- 
tiated him  into  the  mystery  of  Death,  that  showed  him, 
beyond  this  life,  a  nocturnal  empire  of  marvels.  Harmony, 
an  element  superior  to  time  and  space,  had  given  him,  like 
a  beatitude,  a  glimpse  of  the  possibility  of  freeing  himself 
from  space  and  time,  of  detaching  himself  from  the  indi- 
vidual will  that  confined  him  in  the  prison  of  a  personality 
enclosed  in  a  restricted  place,  that  kept  him  perpetually 
subject  to  the  brutish  matter  of  corporeal  substance.  How 
he  had  a  thousand  times  felt  in  himself,  in  the  moments 
of  inspiration,  the  awakening  of  the  universal  will ;  what 
extraordinary  joy  he  had  tasted  on  recognizing  the  su- 
preme unity  that  is  at  the  bottom  of  things ;  he  believed 
that  death  would  be  a  means  for  prolonging  his  existence  in 
the  infinite,  that  he  would  become  dissolved  in  the  con- 
tinuous harmony  of  the  Great  All  and  would  partici- 
pate in  the  endless  voluptuousness  of  the  Eternal.  Why 
should  I,  too,  not  have  the  same  initiator  into  the  same 
mystery  ? ' ' 

Elevated  images  arose  in  his  mind,  at  the  same  time  as 
the  stars  appeared  one  by  one  in  the  silence  of  the  heavens. 
Some  of  his  most  poetic  dreams  came  back  to  him.  He 
recalled  the  immense  sentiment  of  joy  and  liberty  that  he 
had  felt  one  day  in  identifying  himself  in  imagination 
with  an  unknown  man  who  was  lying  in  a  bier  at  the  sum- 
mit of  a  majestic  catafalque,  surrounded  by  torches,  while 
at  the  back  of  the  sacred  shadow,  in  the  organ,  in  the  orches- 
tra, and  in  the  human  voices,  the  soul  of  Beethoven,  the 
divine  teacher,  spoke  with  the  Invisible.  He  saw  once 
more  the  chimerical  vessel  laden  with  a  gigantic  organ  that,, 


332  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

between  the  sky  and  the  sea,  in  infinite  distances,  poured 
over  the  calm  wave  torrents  of  harmony  from  its  forests  of 
tubes,  while  twilight  pyres  blazed  on  the  extreme  horizon, 
or  the  serenity  of  the  moon  spread  all  over  the  ecstatic  sky, 
or  in  the  circle  of  the  darkness  the  constellations  shone  from 
the  heights  of  their  crystal  chariots.  He  reconstructed 
that  marvellous  Temple  of  Death,  all  of  white  marble, 
where  remarkable  musicians,  stationed  between  the  columns 
of  the  propylon,  fascinated  with  their  strains  the  young  men 
as  they  passed,  and  put  so  much  art  in  initiating  them 
that  never  did  one  initiated,  when  placing  his  foot  on  the 
funereal  threshold,  look  back  to  salute  the  light  in  which, 
up  to  then,  he  had  found  joy. 

"  Give  me  a  noble  manner  of  dying.  Let  Beauty  spread 
one  of  her  wings  out  under  my  last  step  !  It  is  all  I  implore 
from  my  Destiny." 

A  lyric  breath  expanded  his  thought.  The  end  of  Percy 
Shelley,  so  often  envied  and  dreamed  of  by  him  under  the 
shadow  and  flapping  of  the  sail,  reappeared  to  him  in  an 
immense  flash  of  poetry.  That  destiny  had  superhuman 
grandeur  and  sadness.  "  His  death  is  mysterious  and 
solemn  as  that  of  the  ancient  heroes  of  Greece  which  an 
invisible  power  removed  unexpectedly  from  the  earth  and 
carried  off  transfigured  into  the  Jovian  sphere.  As  in  the 
song  of  Ariel,  nothing  of  him  is  destroyed ;  but  the  sea  has 
transfigured  him  into  something  rich  and  strange.  His 
youthful  body  is  burning  on  a  pyre,  at  the  foot  of  the  Apen- 
nine,  before  the  solitude  of  the  Tyrrhenian  Sea,  under  the 
blue  arch  of  heaven.  He  is  burning  with  aromas,  with 
incense,  with  oil,  with  wine,  with  salt.  The  sonorous 
flames  are  rising  in  the  still  air,  vibrating  and  chanting 
towards  the  sun,  a  looker-on  that  makes  the  marbles  scin- 
tillate on  the  tops  of  the  mountains.  As  long  as  the  body 


TEMPUS    DESTRUENDI.  333 

is  not  consumed,  a  seagull  circles  the  pyre  with  its  flights. 
And  then,  when  the  body,  in  ashes,  falls  apart,  the  heart 
appears,  bare  and  intact. 

Had  not  he,  too,  perhaps,  like  the  poet  of  Epipsychidion, 
loved  Antigone  during  an  anterior  existence  ? 

Beneath  him,  around  him,  the  symphony  of  the  sea 
swelled,  swelled  in  the  shade ;  and  over  him,  the  silence 
of  the  starry  sky  grew  deeper.  But  from  the  shore  came  a 
rumbling  without  resemblance  to  any  other  sound,  very 
familiar.  And,  when  he  turned  his  gaze  on  that  side,  he 
saw  the  two  headlights  of  the  train,  like  the  fulguration  of 
two  eyes  of  fire. 

Deafening,  rapid,  and  sinister,  the  train  that  passed  shook 
the  promontory;  in  a  second  it  had  dashed  across  the  open 
space;  then,  whistling  and  roaring,  it  disappeared  in  the 
mouth  of  the  tunnel  opposite. 

George  started  to  his  feet.  He  perceived  that  he  was 
alone  on  the  Trabocco. 

"  George,  George,  where  are  you  ?  "  It  was  the  uneasy 
cry  of  Hippolyte,  who  had  come  to  look  for  him — it  was 
a  cry  of  anguish  and  fear. 

"  George  !     Where  are  you  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HIPPOLYTE  exulted  from  joy  when  George  told  her  of 
the  near  arrival  of  the  piano  and  pieces  of  music.  How 
grateful  she  was  to  him  for  that  kind  surprise  !  At  last, 
they  would  have  something  to  break  the  monotony  of  the 
long  days  and  to  keep  them  from  temptation. 

She  laughed  as  she  alluded  to  that  species  of  erotic  fever 
with  which  she  maintained  continual  ardor  in  her  lover; 
she  laughed  as  she  alluded  to  their  carnalism,  interrupted 
only  by  the  silences  of  lassitude  or  by  some  caprice  of  the 
loved  one. 

"  In  that  way,"  she  said,  laughing,  with  a  touch  of  irony 
yet  without  bitterness,  "  in  that  way  you  won't  have  to  take 
refuge  on  your  horrid  Trabocco.  Will  you  ?  " 

She  drew  close  to  him,  laid  her  hands  on  his  head, 
pressed  his  temples  between  her  palms,  and  gazed  into  the 
depths  of  his  pupils. 

"Confess  that  you  took  refuge  there  because  of 'that '," 
she  murmured,  in  a  coaxing  voice,  as  if  to  induce  him  to 
confess. 

' '  Because  of  what  ?  "  he  demanded,  feeling  under  the  con- 
tact of  her  hands  the  sensation  one  feels  when  one  grows  pale. 

"  Because  you  are  afraid  of  my  kisses." 

She  pronounced  the  words  slowly,  almost  scanning  the 
syllables,  and  in  a  voice  which  had  all  at  once  assumed 
singular  limpidity.  She  had  in  her  look  an  indefinable 
mixture  of  passion,  irony,  cruelty,  and  pride. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  335 

"Is  it  true,  is  it  true  ?  "  she  insisted. 

She  continued  to  press  his  temples  between  her  palms ; 
but,  gradually,  her  fingers  crept  into  his  hair,  slightly 
tickled  his  ears,  descended  to  his  neck  with  one  of  those 
multiple  kisses  in  the  science  of  which  she  was  an  accom- 
plished artist. 

"  Is  it  true  ?"  she  repeated  in  a  subtle,  coaxing  tone 
that  she  knew  well,  by  experience,  Was  most  efficacious  in 
arousing  her  lover.  "  Is  it  true  ?  " 

He  did  not  reply;  he  closed  his  eyes;  he  abandoned 
himself;  he  felt  life  slipping  by — the  world  fading  away. 

Once  more  he  was  succumbing  at  the  mere  contact  of 
those  thin  hands ;  once  more  the  Enemy  was  triumphantly 
essaying  its  power.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  saying :  "  You 
cannot  escape  me.  I  know  you  fear  me,  but  the  desire  I 
arouse  in  you  is  stronger  than  your  terror.  And  nothing 
intoxicates  me  so  much  as  to  read  that  terror  in  your  eyes, 
to  surprise  it  in  the  shudder  of  your  fibres." 

In  the  ingenuousness  of  her  egotism,  she  did  not  appear 
to  have  the  least  consciousness  of  the  evil  she  was  doing,  of 
the  work  of  destruction  that  she  was  carrying  on  without 
truce  or  mercy.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  her  lover's 
peculiarities — his  melancholies,  his  intense  and  mute  con- 
templations, his  sudden  uneasiness,  his  sombre  and  almost 
insane  ardor,  his  bitter  and  ambiguous  words — she  did  not 
comprehend  all  the  gravity  of  the  actual  situation,  that  she 
was  aggravating  more  every  hour.  Gradually,  excluded 
from  all  participation  in  George's  inner  existence,  she  had, 
at  first  by  instinct,  and  afterwards  deliberately,  made  it 
her  study  to  fortify  her  sensual  dominion  over  him.  Their 
new  way  of  life,  in  the  open  air,  in  the  country,  on  the 
seashore,  favored  the  development  of  her  animalism, 
aroused  in  her  nature  a  factitious  strength  and  the  need  of 


336  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

exercising  that  strength  to  excess.  Complete  idleness,  the 
absence  of  commonplace  cares,  the  continual  presence  of 
the  loved  one,  the  common  possession  of  the  couch,  the 
scantiness  of  their  Summer  attire,  the  daily  bath — all  those 
new  habits  concurred  to  subtilize  and  multiply  her  volup- 
tuous artifices,  at  the  same  time  offering  her  numerous 
opportunities  to  repeat  them.  And  it  really  seemed  as  if 
she  were  making  ample  amends  for  her  coldness  in  the  early 
days  and  her  inexperience  of  the  early  months,  and  that  she 
was  now  corrupting  him  who  had  corrupted  her. 

She  had  become  so  expert,  so  certain  of  her  effects,  she 
was  so  quick  at  unexpected  inventions,  so  graceful  in  her 
gestures  and  attitudes,  she  showed  at  times  in  the  offer  of 
herself  such  violent  frenzy,  that  George  could  no  longer 
see  in  her  the  bloodless  and  wounded  creature  who  used 
to  submit  with  profound  astonishment,  the  ignorant  and 
frightened  creature  who  had  given  him  that  fierce  and 
divine  spectacle — the  agony  of  modesty  felled  by  victorious 
passion. 

A  short  time  ago,  as  he  had  watched  her  sleeping,  he  had 
thought :  "  True  sensual  communion  is  also  a  chimera.  The 
senses  of  my  mistress  are  not  less  obscure  than  her  soul.  I 
shall  never  succeed  in  surprising  in  her  fibres  a  secret  dis- 
gust, an  appetite  unsatisfied,  an  irritation  unappeased.  I 
shall  never  succeed  in  knowing  the  different  sensations  pro- 
duced in  her  by  the  same  kiss  repeated  at  different  times." 
Yet  Hippolyte  had  acquired  that  science  over  him,  she 
possessed  that  infallible  science ;  she  knew  her  lover's  most 
secret  and  subtle  sensibilities  and  knew  how  to  move  them 
with  a  marvellous  intuition  of  the  physical  conditions  that 
depend  on  them,  and  their  corresponding  sensations  and 
their  associations,  and  their  alternatives. 

But  the  inextinguishable  desire  that  she  had  enflamed  in 


TEMPUS    DESTRUENDI.  337 

George  burned  her,  too.  A  sorceress,  she  herself  felt  the 
effects  of  her  own  spell.  The  consciousness  of  her  power, 
essayed  a  thousand  times  without  failure,  intoxicated  her, 
and  this  ravishment  blinded  her,  prevented  her  from  per- 
ceiving the  great  shadow  that  was  thickening  every  day 
behind  the  head  of  her  slave.  The  terror  that  she  had 
surprised  in  George's  eyes,  his  attempts  at  flight,  the 
thinly  disguised  hostilities,  excited  her  instead  of  restrain- 
ing her.  Her  artificial  taste  for  transcendent  life,  for  extra- 
ordinary things,  for  mystery,  tastes  that  George  had  edu- 
cated in  her,  took  pleasure  in  these  symptoms  significant 
of  a  deep  change.  Formerly  her  lover,  separated  from  her, 
tortured  by  the  anguish  of  desire  and  jealousy,  had  written 
her  :  "  Is  that  love  ?  Oh,  no  !  It  is  a  sort  of  monstrous 
infirmity  that  can  blossom  only  in  me,  for  my  joy  and  my 
martyrdom.  I  love  to  think  that  no  other  human  creature 
has  experienced  that  feeling."  She  was  proud  at  having 
aroused  such  a  sentiment  in  a  man  so  different  from  the 
commonplace  men  she  had  known ;  she  became  exalted  as 
she  recognized,  hour  by  hour,  the  strange  effects  of  her 
exclusive  domination  on  this  morbid-minded  man.  And 
she  had  no  other  object  than  to  exercise  her  tyranny,  with 
a  mixture  of  levity  and  seriousness,  passing  by  turns  from 
playfulness  to  wilful  abuse. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SOMETIMES,  when  at  the  edge  of  the  sea,  contemplating 
the  unconscious  woman  standing  near  the  calm  and  perilous 
waves,  George  thought :  "  I  could  easily  cause  her  death. 
She  often  tries  to  swim  leaning  on  me.  I  could  easily 
smother  her  under  the  water,  let  her  drown.  No  suspicion 
would  attach  to  me ;  the  crime  would  appear  like  an  acci- 
dent. Only  then,  in  front  of  the  corpse  of  the  Enemy, 
should  I  have  an  opportunity  to  find  the  solution  of  my 
problem.  Since  she  is  now  the  centre  of  all  my  existence, 
what  change  would  take  place  in  me  after  her  disappearance? 
Have  I  not  more  than  once  experienced  a  feeling  of  peace 
and  liberty  in  thinking  of  her  as  dead,  enclosed  forever  in 
the  tomb  ?  Perhaps  I  should  succeed  in  saving  myself  and 
reconquering  life,  if  I  made  the  Enemy  perish,  if  I  removed 
the  Obstacle."  He  dwelt  on  this  thought;  he  tried  to 
construct  a  representation  of  his  being  freed  and  appeased 
in  a  future  without  love;  he  took  pleasure  in  enveloping 
his  mistress's  sensual  body  in  a  fantastic  shroud. 

Hippolyte  was  timid  in  the  water.  During  her  swim- 
ming lessons  she  never  ventured  beyond  her  depth.  A 
sudden  terror  seized  her  when,  on  resuming  the  vertical 
position,  she  did  not  at  once  feel  ground  under  her  feet. 
George  urged  her  to  venture,  with  his  help,  as  far  as  a  rock 
situated  a  short  distance  from  the  shore,  about  twenty 
strokes  from  her  depth.  Very  slight  effort  was  necessary  to 
swim  there. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  339 

"Be  brave!"  he  kept  repeating,  to  convince  her. 
"  You'll  never  learn  unless  you  are  courageous.  I'll  stay 
near  you." 

Thus  he  enveloped  her  with  his  homicidal  thought ;  and 
he  had  a  long  inner  thrill  each  time,  during  the  incidents 
of  the  bath,  that  he  became  convinced  of  the  extreme  facility 
with  which  he  could  carry  his  thoughts  into  effect.  But 
the  necessary  energy  failed  him,  and  he  confined  himself  to 
proposing  the  swim  to  the  rock  and  leaving  the  rest  to 
chance.  In  his  present,  weak  condition,  he  himself  would 
be  in  peril  if  Hippolyte,  seized  by  fright,  took  violent 
hold  of  him.  But  such  a  probability  did  not  dissuade  him 
from  making  the  attempt ;  on  the  contrary,  it  made  him 
more  determined  to  do  so. 

"  Be  brave  !  Cannot  you  see  that  the  rock  is  so  near  that 
we  can  almost  touch  it  with  our  hands  ?  Swim  slowly,  by 
my  side.  You  can  rest  when  you're  there.  We'll  sit 
down;  we'll  gather  some  coral.  Come,  be  brave  !  " 

He  dissimulated  his  own  anxiety  with  difficulty.  She 
resisted,  undecided,  wavering  between  fear  and  caprice. 

"  Suppose  my  strength  gives  out  ?  " 

"I'll  be  there  to  help  you." 

"  And  if  your  strength  isn't  sufficient  ?  " 

"  It  will  be.     You  see  how  close  the  rock  is." 

Smiling,  she  touched  her  lips  with  her  wet  fingers. 

"  The  water  is  so  salt !  "  she  said,  pouting. 

Then,  her  last  repugnance  overcome,  she  suddenly  made 
up  her  mind. 

"  Come  !     I'm  ready." 

Her  heart  did  not  beat  so  fast  as  the  heart  of  her  com- 
panion. As  the  water  was  very  calm,  almost  motionless, 
the  first  strokes  were  easy.  But  suddenly,  through  lack 
of  experience,  she  began  to  hurry  and  blow  herself.  A 


340  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

false  movement  filled  her  mouth  with  water;  panic  seized 
her ;  she  cried,  struggled,  drank  in  more. 

"  Help,  George  !     Help!" 

Instinctively,  he  dashed  to  her  aid  and  caught  hold  of 
the  shrivelled  fingers  that  clutched  him.  Under  the  clutch, 
and  weight,  he  weakened ;  and  he  had  a  sudden  vision  of 
the  foreseen  end. 

"Don't  hold  me  like  that!"  he  cried.  "Don't  hold 
me  like  that !  Leave  me  an  arm  free  !  " 

The  brutal  instinct  of  self-preservation  restored  his 
strength.  He  made  an  extraordinary  effort,  swam  the  short 
distance  with  his  burden;  and  he  touched  the  rock,  his 
strength  exhausted. 

"  Cling  hold  !  "  he  said  to  Hippolyte,  unable  to  raise 
her  himself. 

Finding  herself  safe,  she  had  recovered  her  promptness 
of  action;  but,  barely  seated  on  the  rocks,  gasping  and 
dripping,  she  burst  into  sobs. 

She  cried  violently,  like  a  child;  and  her  sobs  exas- 
perated George  instead  of  touching  him.  He  had  never 
seen  her  cry  such  a  torrent  of  tears,  with  such  swollen  and 
burning  eyes,  making  such  a  grimace.  He  thought  her 
ugly  and  pusillanimous.  He  felt  an  angry  rancor  toward 
her,  and  at  heart  almost  a  regret  for  having  given  himself 
that  trouble  and  taken  her  from  the  water.  He  imagined 
her  drowned,  disappeared  in  the  sea;  he  imagined  his  own 
emotion  on  seeing  her  disappear,  and  then  the  signs  of  grief 
that  he  would  give  in  public,  his  attitude  in  front  of  the 
cadaver  cast  up  by  the  waves. 

Stupefied  at  seeing  herself  left  to  her  tears  without  a 
consoling  word,  she  turned  toward  him.  She  had  stopped 
crying. 

"  What  shall  I  do  to  get  back  ?  "  she  asked. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  341 

"  Make  another  attempt,"  he  answered,  with  a  touch  of 
mockery. 

"  No,  no;  never  !  " 

"What,  then?" 

"I'll  stay  here." 

"Very  well.     Addio  !" 

And  he  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  dive  in  the  sea. 

"  Addio  !     I'll  shout.     They'll  come  and  rescue  me." 

She  passed  from  sobbing  to  laughter,  her  eyes  still  full  of 
tears. 

"  What's  that  on  your  arm  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  marks  of  your  nails." 

He  showed  her  the  bleeding  scratches. 

"  Do  they  hurt  ?" 

She  felt  sorry,  and  stroked  the  arm  with  her  hand. 

"  It  was  your  fault — only  yours,  wasn't  it  ?  "  she  contin- 
ued. "  You  made  me  come.  I  didn't  want  to " 

Then,  smiling : 

"  It  was  perhaps  a  way  to  get  rid  of  me  ?  " 

A  shudder  ran  through  her : 

"  What  a  horrible  death  !     The  water  is  so  bitter  !  " 

She  bent  her  head  down  to  one  side,  and  felt  the  water 
run  from  her  ear,  warm  as  the  blood. 

The  sun-beaten  rock  was  hot,  brownish,  and  slippery,  like 
the  back  of  a  living  animal ;  and  at  its  base,  it  swarmed 
with  infinite  life.  The  green  vegetation  undulated  on  the 
surface  of  the  water  with  the  suppleness  of  unloosened  hair, 
with  a  light,  splashing  sound.  The  solitary  rock,  which 
received  the  heavenly  heat,  exercised  a  sort  of  seduction, 
and  communicated  it  to  its  people  of  happy  creatures. 

As  if  allowing  himself  to  be  won  by  this  seduction, 
George  stretched  himself  out  on  his  back.  For  a  few  sec- 
onds he  applied  his  consciousness  to  perceive  the  vague 


34*  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

feeling  of  comfort  that  penetrated  his  wet  skin  drying  in  the 
heat  emanated  from  the  stones  and  in  that  of  the  direct 
rays.  Phantoms  of  distant  sensations  came  back  to  his 
memory.  The  thought  of  the  chaste  baths  of  formerly,  of 
the  long  apathies  on  the  sand,  more  ardent  and  more  suave 
than  a  female  body.  Oh  !  for  solitude,  liberty,  love  with- 
out the  accessories,  love  for  dead  or  inaccessible  women  ! 
Hippolyte's  presence  prohibited  forgetful  ness,  recalled 
incessantly  the  image  of  the  physical  relation,  of  the 
accouplement  operated  by  ignoble  organs,  of  the  infecund 
and  sad  spasm  which  had  since  become  the  unique  mani- 
festation of  their  love. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  "  asked  Hippolyte,  touch- 
ing him.  "  Do  you  want  to  stay  here  ?  " 

He  rose.     He  replied  : 

"  Let's  go." 

The  life  of  the  Enemy  was  still  in  his  hands.  He  could 
still  destroy  it.  He  cast  a  rapid  glance  around  him.  A 
heavy  silence  hung  over  the  hill  and  the  beach;  on  the 
Trabocco,  the  taciturn  fishermen  were  watching  their  net. 

"  Come,  be  brave  !  "  he  repeated,  smiling. 

"  No,  no ;  never  again  !  " 

"  Let's  stay  here,  then." 

"  No.     Let's  call  the  men  of  the  Trabocco." 

"They'll  laugh  at  us." 

"  Very  well !     I'll  call  them  myself." 

"  If  you  didn't  get  frightened — if  you  didn't  clutch  me 
so,  I  should  be  strong  enough  to  carry  you." 

"  No,  no.     I  want  to  go  back  in  the  cannizza." 

She  was  so  determined  that  George  let  her  have  her  way. 
He  stood  up  on  the  rock,  and,  making  a  speaking  trumpet 
of  his  hands,  he  called  one  of  Turchin's  sons. 

"Daniel!     Daniel!" 


TEMPUS    DESTRUENDI.  343 

On  hearing  this  repeated  shout,  one  of  the  fishermen  left 
the  capstan,  crossed  the  bridge,  climbed  down,  and  began 
to  run  along  the  beach. 

"  Daniel,  bring  the  cannizza  /  " 

The  man  heard,  turned  back,  went  toward  the  boathouse, 
dragged  the  little  dingy  into  the  water,  and,  pushing  off 
with  a  long  pole,  proceeded  towards  the  rock. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  next  morning — it  was  a  Sunday — George,  seated  be- 
neath the  oak,  was  listening  to  old  Colas,  who  was  relating 
how,  several  days  before,  at  Tocco  Casauria,  the  new  Messiah 
had  been  arrested  by  the  police  and  led  to  the  Saint  Valen- 
tine prison  with  several  of  his  disciples.  The  old  man 
said,  shaking  his  head  : 

"  Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  himself  suffered  from  the  hate 
of  the  Pharisees.  Oreste  came  into  the  district  to  bring 
peace  and  abundance,  and  they  put  him  in  prison  !  " 

"O  father,  don't  grieve,"  cried  Candia.  "The  Mes- 
siah can  leave  the  prison  when  he  wishes  to,  and  we'll  see 
him  again  here.  Wait  and  see  !  " 

She  was  leaning  against  the  door-post,  supporting,  with- 
out fatigue,  the  weight  of  her  peaceful  maternity;  and  in 
her  large  ashen  eyes  shone  an  infinite  serenity. 

All  at  once,  Albadora,  the  septuagenarian  Sibyl,  who  had 
brought  into  the  world  twenty -two  children,  remounted  to 
the  court,  by  the  path ;  and,  pointing  to  the  neighboring 
shore  of  the  left  promontory,  she  announced,  deeply  moved  : 

"  A  child  has  been  drowned  yonder  !  " 

Candia  made  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

George  rose  and  ascended  to  the  loggia,  in  order  to  ob- 
serve the  point  indicated.  On  the  beach,  at  the  foot  of 
the  promontory,  near  the  reefs  and  the  tunnel,  there  was 
a  white  spot,  doubtless  the  cloth  that  covered  the  little 
corpse.  A  group  of  people  stood  close  by. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  345 

As  Hippolyte  had  gone  to  mass  with  Helen,  to  the  chapel 
of  the  Port,  he  was  curious  to  go  down,  and  said  to  his 
hosts  : 

"I'll  go  and  see." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  put  a  pain  in  your  heart  ?  "  asked 
Candia. 

He  turned  quickly  into  the  path,  took  a  short  cut  to  the 
beach,  walked  along  the  edge  of  the  sea.  On  arriving  at 
the  place  of  the  accident,  he  was  panting  a  little.  He 
asked  : 

"  What  has  happened  ?  " 

The  assembled  peasants  saluted  him,  making  room  for 
him.  One  of  them  answered,  calm  : 

"  It's  the  son  of  a  mother,  who's  been  drowned." 

Another,  clothed  in  linen,  who  appeared  to  be  in  charge 
of  the  corpse,  stooped,  and  raised  the  cloth. 

The  little  body  appeared,  inert,  stretched  on  the  hard 
beach.  It  was  the  body  of  a  child  of  eight  or  nine,  a 
thin  and  frail  blond.  For  a  pillow,  they  had  put  beneath 
his  head  his  poor  rags  rolled  up  in  a  bundle  :  his  shirt,  blue 
breeches,  red  belt,  soft  felt  hat.  His  face  was  scarcely 
livid,  with  a  snub  nose,  prominent  forehead,  very  long  eye- 
lashes, a  half-open  mouth  with  large,  violet-colored  lips 
between  which  showed  the  white  teeth,  spaced  one  from 
another.  His  neck  was  thin,  flaccid,  like  a  withered  stem, 
marked  with  tiny  folds.  The  tendons  of  the  arm  were  weak  ; 
the  arms  were  slender,  covered  with  a  down  like  the  fine 
feathers  that  cover  a  newly  hatched  bird.  His  ribs  were 
prominent  and  distinct ;  a  darker  line  divided  the  skin  in 
the  middle  of  the  chest;  the  umbilicus  protruded  like  a 
knot.  The  feet,  a  little  swollen,  had  the  same  yellowish 
color  as  the  hands;  and  the  small  hands  were  callous,  cov- 
ered with  warts,  with  white  nails  that  were  beginning  to  turn 


346  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

livid.  On  the  left  arm,  on  the  thighs  near  the  groin,  and 
lower  down,  on  the  knees,  along  the  limbs,  reddish  spots 
appeared.  All  the  particularities  of  this  miserable  body 
assumed  an  extraordinary  significance  in  George's  eyes, 
immobilized  as  they  were,  and  fixed  forever  in  the  rigidity 
of  death. 

"  How  did  he  get  drowned  ?  Where  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
low  voice. 

The  man  clad  in  linen  began,  not  without  some  signs 
of  impatience,  the  story,  that,  doubtless,  he  had  already 
repeated  too  often.  He  had  a  square,  bestial  face,  hairy 
eyebrows,  and  a  broad,  hard,  fierce  mouth.  The  story  he 
told  was  as  follows  : 

Immediately  after  having  taken  his  sheep  back  to  the 
barn,  the  child  had  eaten  his  lunch  and  had  gone  down  to 
bathe  in  company  with  a  comrade.  But  scarcely  had  he 
put  foot  in  the  water  than  he  fell  and  was  drowned.  At  his 
comrade's  cries,  someone  had  run  from  the  house  built  on 
the  cliffs,  and  had  drawn  him  out  half-dead,  without  get- 
ting wet  above  the  knees.  He  had  lowered  the  head  to  cause 
vomiting,  had  shaken  him,  but  uselessly.  And,  so  as  to 
illustrate  just  where  the  poor  little  fellow  had  gone  down, 
the  man  picked  up  a  stone  and  threw  it  into  the  sea. 

"  There,  just  there  —  three  arms'  length  from  the 
shore." 

The  calm  sea  breathed  softly  near  the  head  of  the  little 
corpse.  But  the  sun  blazed  on  the  beach ;  and,  in  pres- 
ence of  this  pallid  corpse,  there  seemed  something  impla- 
cable in  that  burning  sky  and  these  coarse  witnesses. 

George  asked : 

"  Why  don't  you  carry  him  into  the  shade,  to  a  house,  a 
bed?" 

"  He  mustn't  be  moved,"  replied  the  guardian  senten- 


TEMPOS   DESTRUENDI.  347 

tiously.  "  Until  the  arrival  of  the  Authorities,  he  must  not 
be  moved." 

"  But,  at  least,  carry  him  into  the  shade — there,  under 
that  embankment. ' ' 

Obstinately,  the  guardian  repeated  : 

"  He  must  not  be  moved." 

And  nothing  could  be  more  sad  than  that  frail,  lifeless 
creature,  stretched  on  the  strand,  and  guarded  by  that  im- 
passive brute,  who  always  repeated  the  same  tale  in  the 
same  words,  who  always  made  the  same  motion  when  throw- 
ing the  stone  into  the  sea. 

"There,  just  there." 

A  woman  came  up,  a  hook-nosed  scold,  with  hard  eyes 
and  a  bitter  tongue — the  comrade's  mother.  One  could 
plainly  see  on  her  features  a  suspicious  anxiety,  as  if  she 
feared  an  accusation  against  her  own  son.  She  spoke  sourly, 
and  displayed  almost  irritation  against  the  victim. 

"  It  was  his  fate.  God  told  him,  '  Go  in  the  sea  and 
die.'" 

She  gesticulated  vehemently. 

"  Why  did  he  go  in  when  he  couldn't  swim  ?  " 

A  child  who  did  not  belong  to  the  district,  a  boatman's 
son,  repeated  disdainfully : 

."  Why  did  he  go  in  ?  Yes,  we  fellows  all  know  how  to 
swim." 

People  came  up,  looked  on  with  cold  curiosity,  stopped 
or  passed  on.  One  group  occupied  the  railway  embank- 
ment ;  another  group  was  looking  from  the  top  of  the  prom- 
ontory, as  at  a  spectacle.  Children,  seated  or  kneeling, 
played  with  the  little  pebbles  that  they  threw  in  the  air  to 
catch  them  alternately  on  the  backs  of  their  hands  and  in 
their  palms.  Everyone  displayed  profound  indifference  at 
the  sight  of  another's  misfortune,  and  at  death. 


348  THE   TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Another  woman,  on  her  way  back  from  mass,  came  up,  in 
a  silk  dress,  decked  with  all  her  gold  trinkets.  To  her, 
also,  the  weary  guardian  repeated  his  story,  and  showed  the 
place  in  the  water.  This  woman  was  loquacious. 

"  I  always  say  to  my  children,  '  Don't  go  near  the  sea, 
or  I'll  kill  you.'  The  sea  is  the  sea.  You  can't  save 
yourself." 

She  related  stories  of  drowned  people.  She  recalled  the 
case  of  the  headless  corpse  that  the  sea  had  thrown  up  at 
San  Vito  and  which  a  child  had  discovered  among  the  rocks. 

"  There,  between  those  rocks  you  see.  The  child  came 
running  up,  saying,  '  There's  a  dead  man.'  We  thought  he 
was  joking.  All  the  same,  we  went,  and  we  found  it. 
The  body  had  no  head.  The  Authorities  came.  They  bur- 
ied him  in  a  ditch ;  then,  at  night,  he  was  taken  up  again. 
He  was  all  mangled  and  decomposed,  but  he  still  had  his 
shoes  on  his  feet.  The  magistrate  said,  *  Look,  they  are 
better  than  mine.'  He  must  be  a  rich  man.  And  he  was  a 
cattle-dealer.  He  had  been  assassinated ;  they  had  cut  his 
head  off  and  thrown  him  into  the  Tronto."  .  .  . 

She  continued  in  a  shrill  treble,  swallowing  the  excessive 
saliva,  from  time  to  time,  with  a  light,  whistling  sound : 

"  Where's  the  mother  ?    When  will  the  mother  come  ?  " 

All  the  assembled  women  uttered  exclamations  of  pity 
at  that  name. 

"  The  mother.     The  mother  will  come." 

They  all  turned  around,  thinking  they  saw  her  in  the  dis- 
tance, on  the  burning  sand.  Others  gave  information  con- 
cerning her.  Her  name  was  Riccangela;  she  was  a  widow 
with  seven  children.  She  had  placed  this  one  with  the 
farmers  to  feed  the  sheep  and  earn  his  bread. 

One  was  saying,  as  she  looked  at  the  corpse  : 

"  His  mother  had  so  much  trouble  to  raise  him  !  " 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  349 

Another  said : 

"  She  has  even  begged  alms  so  as  to  nourish  her  children. ' ' 

A  third  told  that,  several  months  previously,  the  poor 
youngster  had  already  come  near  drowning  himself  in  a 
stable-yard  pond — in  three  inches  of  water  ! 

Everyone  repeated : 

"  It  was  his  destiny.     He  was  to  die  so." 

Waiting  rendered  them  uneasy,  anxious. 

"  The  mother  !     The  mother's  coming  !  " 

George,  deeply  affected,  cried  : 

"  Carry  him  into  the  shade,  won't  you  ?  Or  into  a  house, 
so  that  his  mother  will  not  see  him  naked  on  the  sand  in 
the  broiling  sun  !  " 

The  guardian  objected  obstinately  : 

"  He  mustn't  be  moved.  Until  the  arrival  of  the  Au- 
thorities, he  mustn't  be  moved." 

The  assistants  looked  at  Candia's  stranger  with  surprise. 
Their  number  increased.  Some  occupied  the  embankment, 
planted  with  acacias ;  others  crowned  the  arid  promontory 
rearing  up  perpendicularly  above  the  rocks.  Here  and 
there,  lying  on  the  great,  monstrous  blocks,  clumps  of  reeds 
shone  like  gold,  at  the  foot  of  the  enormous  slide  of  the 
cliffs,  resembling  a  ruin  of  a  cyclopean  tower  in  front  of 
the  immense  sea. 

Suddenly,  above  the  heights,  a  voice  announced : 

"  Here  she  is." 

Other  voices  followed : 

"  The  mother,  the  mother  !  " 

Everybody  turned  round ;  some  came  down  from  the  em- 
bankment ;  those  on  the  promontory  leaned  forward.  Ex- 
pectation rendered  all  dumb.  The  guardian  recovered  the 
corpse  with  the  cloth.  In  the  silence,  the  sea  scarcely 
gasped,  the  acacias  scarcely  rustled. 


35°  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

And  then,  in  the  silence,  one  heard  the  cries  of  the  new 
arrival. 

The  mother  came  along  the  shore,  in  the  sun,  crying. 
She  was  dressed  in  widow's  weeds.  Her  body  bent,  she 
stumbled  along  on  the  sand,  crying  : 

"  My  son  !     My  son  !  " 

She  raised  her  hands  to  heaven,  crying : 

"My  son!" 

One  of  her  older  sons,  with  a  red  handkerchief  knotted 
about  his  neck,  followed  her  with  a  stupefied  air,  wiping 
away  his  tears  with  the  back  of  his  hand. 

She  walked  along  the  shore,  bent,  striking  her  knees, 
directing  her  steps  toward  the  white  cloth.  And  while 
she  called  the  dead,  her  mouth  uttered  cries  that  had 
nothing  human  about  them,  like  the  yelping  of  a  savage 
dog.  The  nearer  she  came  the  lower  she  bent,  almost 
stooping  on  all  fours ;  when  she  reached  the  body,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  cloth  with  a  shriek. 

She  arose.  With  her  coarse  and  blackened  hand,  a  hand 
hardened  by  every  toil,  she  uncovered  the  corpse.  She 
looked  at  it  for  a  few  instants,  motionless,  as  if  petrified. 
Then,  several  times,  in  a  piercing  voice,  with  all  the  force 
of  her  lungs,  she  cried  as  if  to  awaken  the  dead : 

"  My  son  !     My  son  !     My  son  !  " 

The  sobs  choked  her.  On  her  knees,  furious,  she  stnick 
her  sides  with  her  fists.  Her  hopeless  gaze  wandered 
around  on  the  people  present.  And  during  a  lull  in  that 
violent  tempest  she  seemed  to  collect  herself. 

Then  she  began  to  chant. 

She  chanted  her  sorrow  in  a  rhythm  that  rose  and  fell 
regularly,  like  the  palpitation  of  a  heart. 

It  was  an  ancient  monody  that,  from  time  immemorial, 
in  the  region  of  the  Abruzzi,  the  women  chanted  over  the 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  35 1 

loss  of  their  kin.  It  was  the  melodious  eloquence  of  the 
sacred  sorrow  that  spontaneously  wells  up  from  the  depths 
of  the  being,  that  hereditary  rhythm  in  which  the  mothers  of 
other  times  had  modulated  their  lament. 

She  chanted,  chanted : 

"  Open  your  eyes,  arise,  walk,  my  son !  How  beautiful 
you  are  !  How  beautiful  you  are  !  " 

She  chanted : 

"  For  a  morsel  of  bread,  I  have  drowned  you,  my  son  ! 
For  a  morsel  of  bread,  I  sent  you  to  death  !  It  was  for  this, 
then,  that  I  raised  you  !  " 

But  the  woman  with  the  hooked  nose  interrupted  her, 
snappishly  : 

"  No,  you  have  not  drowned  him.  It  was  Destiny.  No, 
you  didn't  send  him  to  his  death.  You  put  it  in  the  midst  of 
the  bread." 

And  with  a  gesture  towards  the  hill  on  which  stood  the 
house  that  had  given  hospitality  to  the  child,  she  added : 

"  They  took  care  of  him  there  like  a  jewel  in  its  casket" 

The  mother  continued  : 

"  O  my  son  !  Who  sent  you  here  ?  Who  sent  you 
here,  to  be  drowned  ?  " 

And  the  snappy  woman  : 

"  Who  sent  him  ?  It  was  our  Lord.  He  said  to  him, 
'  Go  into  the  sea  and  drown.'  " 

As  George  observed  in  a  low  voice  to  one  of  the  by- 
standers that  the  child,  succored  in  time,  could  have  been 
saved,  and  that  they  had  killed  him  by  putting  his  head 
low  and  suspending  him  by  the  feet,  he  felt  the  mother's 
gaze  fixed  on  himself. 

"  Do  something  for  him,  signer,"  she  implored.  "  Do 
something  for  him." 

She  prayed: 


352  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  O  Madonna  of  Miracles,  perform  the  miracle  !  " 

She  repeated,  touching  the  head  of  the  dead  : 

"  My  son  !     My  son  !     My  son  !     Arise!     Walk!" 

Before  her,  on  his  knees,  was  the  brother  of  the  dead 
child;  and  he  sobbed  with  grief,  gazing  about  him  from 
time  to  time  with  a  face  that  had  suddenly  become  indiffer- 
ent. Another  brother,  the  eldest,  remained  seated  near  by 
in  the  shadow  of  a  rock,  and  he  simulated  grief  by  hiding 
his  face  in  his  hands.  In  order  to  console  the  mother,  the 
women  bent  around  her  with  gestures  of  pity,  and  accom- 
panied the  monody  with  a  few  groans. 

She  chanted : 

"  Why  did  I  send  you  away  from  my  house  ?  Why  have 
I  sent  you  to  your  death  ?  I  have  done  everything  to  feed 
my  sons,  everything  but  sold  myself.  And  it  is  for  a  mor- 
sel of  bread  that  I  have  lost  you  !  That,  that  is  how  you 
were  to  end.  They  have  drowned  you,  my  son  ! ' ' 

Then  the  woman  with  the  rapacious  nose  in  a  burst  of 
anger  raised  her  skirt,  entered  the  water  as  far  as  the  knees, 
and  cried : 

"  Look !  He  went  in  this  far.  Look  !  The  water  is 
like  oil.  It  is  a  sign  that  he  was  to  die  in  this  manner." 

And  she  regained  the  shore  in  two  long  strides. 

"  Look,  look  !  "  she  repeated,  pointing  out  on  the  sand 
the  deep  imprints  of  the  man  who  had  drawn  out  the  body. 

The  mother  looked  on  in  a  stupor ;  but  one  would  have 
said  that  she  did  not  see,  that  she  understood  nothing. 
After  the  hopeless  explosions  of  grief,  there  supervened  in 
her  short  pauses,  like  the  dulling  of  consciousness.  She 
remained  silent ;  she  touched  her  foot,  or  leg,  mechani- 
cally; she  dried  her  tears  with  her  black  apron ;  she  seemed 
to  become  composed.  Then  suddenly  a  new  explosion 
shook  her  entire  frame ;  she  fell  on  the  corpse. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  353 

"  And  I  cannot  take  you  away !  I  cannot  take  you  in 
my  arms  to  the  church  !  My  son  !  My  son  ! ' ' 

She  felt  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  a  slow  caress.  Her 
wi  Id  anguish  became  more  gentle,  more  touching.  Her  hand, 
sunburnt  and  callous  by  work,  became  infinitely  coaxing 
when  she  touched  her  son's  eyes,  mouth,  and  forehead. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are  !     How  beautiful  you  are  !  " 

She  touched  his  lower  lip,  already  violet-hued ;  and  this 
slight  pressure  caused  a  flow  of  whitish  foam  to  flow  from  the 
mouth.  She  removed  from  between  the  eyelashes  a  bit  of 
straw,  gently,  gently,  as  if  she  feared  to  hurt  him. 

"  How  beautiful  you  are,  you  mother's  pet !  " 

The  eyelashes  of  the  child  were  very  long  and  very 
blond.  On  the  temples,  on  the  cheeks,  a  light  down  gave 
a  golden  reflection. 

"  Don't  you  hear  me  ?     Arise!     Walk!" 

She  took  the  little  hat,  worn,  soft  as  a  rag.  She  gazed 
on  him,  kissed  him.  She  said  : 

"  I  want  to  keep  this  as  a  relic ;  I  want  to  carry  it  always 
on  my  heart." 

She  took  the  red  waistband,  and  said  : 

"  I  wish  to  dress  you." 

The  rough  woman  who  had  not  left  her  place  ap- 
proved : 

"  Yes,  let  us  dress  him." 

She  herself  removed  the  clothes  from  beneath  the  head 
of  the  corpse,  felt  in  the  vest  pocket,  and  found  there  a 
piece  of  bread  and  a  fig. 

"  You  see  !  They  had  just  given  him  his  meal.  They 
took  care  of  him  there  like  a  jewel  in  its  casket." 

The  mother  looked  at  the  little  shirt,  dirty,  torn,  on 
which  her  tears  were  falling,  and  she  said: 

"  Put  this  shirt  on  him  !  " 
33 


354  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

Promptly  the  woman  shouted  up  to  one  of  her  people  on 
the  heights  above  : 

"  Bring  quickly  one  of  Nufrillo's  clean  shirts." 

The  clean  shirt  was  brought.  When  the  mother  raised 
the  small  body,  a  little  water  came  from  the  mouth  and 
rolled  down  the  chest. 

"O  Madonna  of  Miracles,  perform  the  miracle!"  she 
prayed,  raising  her  eyes  to  heaven  in  a  supreme  supplication. 

Then  she  laid  her  sweet  burden  down  again.  She  took 
the  old  shirt,  the  red  waistband,  the  hat ;  she  rolled  them 
all  up  into  a  bundle,  and  said  : 

"  It  will  be  my  pillow;  at  night  I  shall  rest  my  head  on 
it.  I  want  to  die  on  it." 

She  placed  the  poor  relic  on  the  sand  near  the  child's 
head,  placed  her  temple  on  it,  and  stretched  out  as  if  on  a 
bed. 

They  both  lay  there,  side  by  side,  the  mother  and  son, 
on  the  hard  stones,  beneath  the  burning  sky,  near  the 
homicidal  sea.  And  she  chanted  the  same  cantilena  that 
had  formerly  shed  a  chaste  slumber  over  the  cradle. 

"Get  up,  Riccangela;  get  up!"  repeated  the  women 
around  her. 

She  was  not  listening  to  them. 

"  My  son  is  lying  on  the  stones,  and  I  could  not  rest 
there,  too  !  Oh  !  my  son,  on  these  stones." 

"  Get  up,  Riccangela.     Come  !  " 

She  rose.  She  gazed  once  more  and  with  terrible  inten- 
sity on  the  livid  face  of  the  corpse.  She  called  once  more, 
with  all  the  force  of  her  lungs  : 

' '  My  son  !     My  son  !     My  son  ! ' ' 

Then,  with  her  own  hands,  she  re-covered  her  heavy  loss 
with  the  cloth. 

And  the  women  surrounded  her,  drew  her  a  little  farther 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  355 

away  under  the  shade  of  a  rock,  forced  her  to  sit  down, 
lamented  with  her. 

Gradually  the  spectators  disbanded,  dispersed.  There 
remained  only  a  few  consolers,  and  also  the  man  clothed  in 
linen,  the  impassive  guardian  who  waited  for  the  Au- 
thorities. The  canicular  sun  beat  down  on  the  beach,  and 
imparted  to  the  funereal  cloth  a  dazzling  whiteness.  The 
promontory,  perpendicular  above  the  jagged  rocks,  towered 
up  in  the  conflagration  with  its  desolate  aridity.  The  sea, 
immense  and  green,  breathed  always  evenly.  And  it  seemed 
that  the  slow  hour  would  never  end. 

In  the  shade  of  the  rock,  before  the  white  cloth  raised  by 
the  rigid  form  of  the  corpse,  the  mother  continued  her 
monody  in  the  rhythm  rendered  sacred  by  so  many  sorrows, 
ancient  and  recent,  of  her  race.  And  it  seemed  as  if  her 
lamentation  would  never  cease. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

ON  her  return  from  the  chapel  of  the  Port,  Hippolyte 
had  heard  of  the  accident.  Accompanied  by  Helen,  she 
had  wished  to  rejoin  George  on  the  beach.  But  when 
near  the  tragic  spot,  at  the  sight  of  the  cloth  that  made 
a  white  spot  on  the  sand,  she  had  felt  her  strength  fail 
her.  Seized  by  an  outburst  of  sobs,  she  had  retraced  her 
steps,  had  gone  back  to  the  house,  had  waited  for  George, 
weeping. 

She  felt  less  compassion  for  the  little  body  than  she  felt 
for  herself,  haunted  by  the  recollection  of  the  peril  she  had 
so  lately  incurred  at  the  bath.  And  an  instinctive,  indomi- 
table repulsion  arose  in  her  against  that  sea. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  bathe  in  the  sea  any  more.  I  do  not 
want  you  to  bathe  there,"  she  enjoined  George,  almost 
roughly,  in  a  tone  that  expressed  a  firm,  unyielding  resolu- 
tion. "  I  will  not  have  it.  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

They  passed  the  rest  of  that  Sunday  in  an  anxious  restless- 
ness, returning  ceaselessly  to  the  loggia,  to  look  at  the 
white  spot,  over  there,  on  the  beach.  George  had  the 
image  of  the  corpse  constantly  before  his  eyes  so  strongly 
outlined  that  it  seemed  to  him  almost  tangible.  And  in 
his  ears  was  constantly  the  cadence  of  the  monody  chanted 
by  the  mother.  Was  the  mother  still  lamenting  in  the 
shade  of  the  rock  ?  Had  she  stayed  there  alone  with  the 
sea  and  the  dead  ?  He  saw  again  in  imagination  another 
unfortunate.  He  relived  the  hour  of  that  May  morning, 


TEMPUS   DESTRUEKDt.  357 

long  ago,  in  the  house  far  away,  when  he  had  felt  all  at 
once  the  maternal  life  come  in  contact  with  his  own  life 
with  a  sort  of  adherence,  when  he  had  felt  the  mysterious 
correspondences  of  blood,  of  sorrow,  and  of  destiny  sus- 
pended over  the  heads  of  both.  Would  he  ever  see  her 
again  with  mortal  eyes  ?  Would  he  ever  again  see  that 
feeble  smile,  which,  without  changing  a  line  of  the  face, 
seemed  to  spread  a  light  veil  of  hope,  too  fugitive,  alas  ! 
over  the  indelible  imprints  of  pain  ?  Would  it  be  permit- 
ted him  ever  to  kiss  that  long  and  emaciated  hand  again, 
whose  caress  could  be  compared  to  no  other  ?  And  he  re- 
lived the  distant  hour  of  the  tears  when,  at  the  window,  he 
had  received  the  terrible  revelation  from  the  glimmer  of  a 
smile  :  when  he  had  at  last  heard  the  dear  voice,  the  only 
and  unforgettable  voice,  the  voice  of  comfort,  of  counsel,  of 
forgiveness,  of  infinite  goodness — when  he  had  at  last  recog- 
nized the  tender  creature  of  long  ago,  the  adored  one.  And 
he  relived  the  hour  of  the  farewell,  the  farewell  tear- 
less, and  yet  so  cruel,  when  he  had  lied  for  shame  on  read- 
ing in  his  deceived  mother's  eyes  the  too  sad  question : 
"  For  whom  are  you  abandoning  me  ?  "  And  all  the  past 
sorrows  arose  again  in  his  memory,  with  all  their  dolorous 
images :  that  emaciated  face,  those  swollen  eyelids,  red 
and  burning,  Christine's  gentle  and  heart-rending  smile, 
the  sickly  child  whose  large  head  was  always  resting  on  a 
chest  barren  of  all  but  sighs,  the  cadaveric  mask  of  the 
poor  idiotic  gormand.  .  .  .  And  the  tired  eyes  of 
his  mother  repeated :  "  For  whom  are  you  abandoning 
me?" 

He  felt  himself  penetrated  by  a  wave  of  gentle  feeling; 
he  languished,  dissolved;  he  felt  a  vague  desire  to  bend  his 
forehead,  to  hide  his  face  on  a  bosom,  to  be  caressed  chastely, 
to  savor  slowly  this  secret  bitterness,  to  doze,  to  perish 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

gradually.  It  was  as  if  all  the  effeminations  of  his  soul  had 
blossomed  at  the  same  time,  and  were  floating. 

A  man  passed  by  on  the  path,  bearing  on  his  head  a 
little  white-pine  coffin. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  the  Authorities  arrived  at  the 
beach.  The  little  corpse,  lifted  up  away  from  the  stones, 
had  been  carried  to  the  heights,  disappeared.  Piercing 
shrieks  reached  the  Hermitage.  Then  all  was  quiet.  The 
silence,  ascending  from  the  calm  sea,  regained  possession 
of  the  surrounding  parts. 

The  sea  was  so  calm,  the  air  was  so  calm,  that  life  seemed 
suspended.  A  bluish  light  spread  uniformly  over  everything. 

Hippolyte  had  reentered,  and  had  thrown  herself  on  her 
bed.  George  remained  in  the  loggia,  seated  on  a  chair. 
Both  suffered,  and  they  could  not  speak  of  their  pain. 
Time  slipped  by. 

"Did  you  call  me?"  asked  George,  who  thought  he 
heard  his  name. 

"  No,  I  didn't  call  you,"   she  answered. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?     Are  you  going  to  sleep  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

George  reseated  himself,  and  half-closed  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts  always  went  back  towards  the  mountain.  In  this 
silence,  he  felt  the  silence  of  the  solitary  and  abandoned 
garden  in  which  the  little  cypress-trees,  tall  and  straight, 
reared  up  motionless  toward  the  sky,  religiously,  like  vo- 
tive wax  candles ;  from  which,  through  the  windows  of  the 
deserted  chambers,  still  intact  like  reliquaries,  came  a  relig- 
ious sweetness  of  recollections. 

And  he  appeared  to  him,  a  mild,  meditative  man,  with 
a  face  full  of  a  virile  melancholy,  and  a  single  white  curl  in 
the  centre  of  his  forehead,  among  the  black  hair,  giving 
him  an  odd  appearance. 


TEMPUS   DESTRUENDI.  359 

"Oh  !  why,"  said  he  to  Demetrius,  "why  did  I  not 
obey  your  suggestion,  the  last  time  I  entered  the  chambers 
inhabited  by  your  spirit  ?  Why  did  I  wish  to  make  a  new 
trial  cf  life,  and  cover  myself  with  shame  before  your  eyes  ? 
How  could  I  have  made  the  mistake  of  pursuing  the  sure 
possession  of  another  soul,  when  I  possessed  yours,  and  when 
you  lived  in  me  ?  " 

After  the  physical  death,  the  soul  of  Demetrius  had  been 
preserved  in  the  survivor  without  any  diminution,  and  in 
him  it  had  even  attained,  and  retained,  its  supreme  inten- 
sity. All  that  the  living  person  had  consumed  in  contact 
with  his  fellows,  all  the  words  sown  in  the  course  of  time,  all 
the  diverse  manifestations  that  had  determined  the  special 
character  of  his  being  compared  with  other  beings,  all  the 
ways,  constant  or  variable,  that  had  distinguished  his  person- 
ality among  other  personalities  and  made  of  him  a  man 
apart  in  the  human  multitude;  in  short,  all  that  had  differ- 
entiated his  own  life  from  other  lives — all  that  was  col- 
lected, concentrated,  circumscribed  in  the  unique,  ideal 
tie  that  attached  the  defunct  to  the  survivor.  And  the 
divine  ostensory  preserved  in  the  Duomo  of  the  natal  town 
seemed  to  consecrate  this  high  mystery :  Ego  Demetrius 
Aurispa  et  unicus  Georgius  filius  meus. 

The  impure  creature  who  was  now  lying  on  that  unchaste 
bed  had  interposed  between.  The  terrible  corrupter  was 
not  only  the  obstacle  to  life,  but  also  an  obstacle  to  death 
— to  that  death.  She  was  the  Enemy  of  both. 

And  George,  in  thought,  returned  to  the  mountain,  once 
more  reached  the  old  mansion,  reentered  the  deserted 
rooms.  As  on  that  May  morning,  he  crossed  the  tragic 
threshold.  And,  as  on  that  day,  he  felt  the  obscure  obses- 
sion over  his  will.  The  fifth  anniversary  was  near.  In 
what  manner  should  he  celebrate  it  ? 


360  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

A  sudden  cry  from  Hippolyte  made  him  start  violently. 
He  jumped  up  and  ran. 

"What's  the  matter  ?" 

Seated  up  in  bed,  terrified,  she  was  passing  her  hands 
over  her  brow  and  eyelids,  as  though  to  thrust  off  some- 
thing that  tormented  her.  She  fixed  large,  haggard  eyes  on 
her  lover.  Then,  with  an  abrupt  gesture,  she  threw  her 
arms  round  his  neck,  covered  his  face  with  kisses  and  tears. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked, 
astonished,  uneasy. 

"  Nothing,  nothing " 

"  Why  are  you  crying  ?  " 

"  I  had  a  dream " 

"  What  did  you  dream  ?    Tell  me  !" 

Instead  of  replying,  she  clasped  him  close,. kissed  .him 
again. 

He  seized  her  wrists,  disengaged  himself  from  her  grasp, 
tried  to  look  in  her  face. 

"  Tell  me,  what  did  you  dream  ?  " 

"  Nothing — a  horrid  dream " 

"  What  kind  of  dream  ?" 

She  resisted  his  persistence.  He,  on  his  part,  grew 
more  uneasy  as  his  desire  to  know  became  greater. 

"Tell  me!" 

Shaken  with  another  shudder,  she  stammered  : 

"  I  dreamed — that  I  drew  aside  the  shroud — and  I  saw — 


you- 


She  smothered  this  last  word  in  kisses. 


VI. 


THE    INVINCIBLE. 

CHAPTER   I. 

CHOSEN  by  a  friend  and  hired  at  Ancona,  sent  to  San 
Vito,  transported,  not  without  difficulty,  to  the  Hermitage, 
the  piano  was  received  by  Hippolyte  with  childish  joy.  It 
wa*s  placed  in  the  room  that  George  called  the  library,  the 
largest  and  best  decorated,  that  in  which  were  the  divan 
laden  with  cushions,  the  long  cane  chairs,  the  hammock,  the 
mats,  the  rugs,  all  the  objects  conducive  to  indolence  and 
dreams.  There  arrived  also  from  Rome  a  box  of  music. 

Thereafter,  for  many  days,  there  was,  new  ecstasy.  In- 
vaded, both  of  them,  by  a  quasi-delirious  fever,  they  did 
nothing,  forgot  everything,  lost  themselves  entirely  in  this 
new  pleasure. 

They  were  no  longer  embarrassed  by  the  monotony  of  the 
long  afternoons  ;  they  no  longer  felt  the  heavy,  irresistible 
drowsiness  ;  they  could  lengthen  their  vigils  almost  until 
daybreak  ;  they  could  prolong  their  fasts  without  suffering 
by  doing  so,  without  noticing  it,  as  if  their  corporeal  life 
had  been  refined,  as  if  they  were  sublimated,  dispossessed 
of  all  vulgar  needs.  It  seemed  to  them  that  their  passion 
ascended  chimerically  beyond  all  limit,  that  the  palpitation 
of  their  hearts  attained  a  prodigious  power.  Sometimes  it 


362  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

seemed  to  them  that  once  more  they  had  found  that  mo- 
ment of  supreme  oblivion,  that  moment  unique  that  they 
had  enjoyed  when  their  lips  first  met ;  sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  that  they  had  recovered  that  indefinable  and  con- 
fused sensation  of  being  dispersed  into  space  with  the 
lightness  of  vapor.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  both  that  the 
spot  that  they  had  chosen  was  indefinably  distant  from  other 
places,  very  distant,  very  isolated,  inaccessible,  outside  of 
the  world. 

A  mysterious  power  drew  them  together,  joined  them, 
blended  them,  melted  them  one  in  the  other,  similarized 
them  in  body  and  spirit,  united  them  into  one  single 
being.  A  mysterious  power  separated  them,  disjoined 
them,  forced  them  back  into  their  solitude,  dug  an  abyss 
between  them,  planted  in  the  core  of  their  being  a  hopeless 
and  mortal  desire. 

In  these  alternatives  both  found  pleasure  and  suffering. 
They  reascended  to  the  first  ecstasy  of  their  love,  and  they 
redescended  to  extreme  and  useless  efforts  to  repossess 
each  other.  They  reascended  again,  remounted  to  the  ori- 
gin of  the  earthly  illusion,  inhaled  the  mystic  shadow, 
where  for  the  first  time  their  trembling  souls  had  exchanged 
the  same  silent  sentiment;  and  they  redescended  again, 
redescended  to  the  torture  of  unrealized  expectation,  en- 
tered into  an  atmosphere  of  fog,  thick  and  suffocating, 
like  a  whirlwind  of  sparks  and  hot  cinders. 

Each  of  those  musicians  whom  they  loved  weaved  a 
different  charm  about  their  supersensitive  feelings.  A 
page  of  Robert  Schumann  evoked  the  phantom  of  a  very 
old  amour  that  extended  over  him,  in  the  guise  of  an 
artificial  firmament,  the  woof  of  his  most  beautiful  recol- 
lections, which,  with  an  astonished  and  melancholy  gen- 
tleness, he  saw  fade  gradually  away.  An  Impromptu  of 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  363 

Frederic  Chopin  was  saying,  as  if  in  a  dream :  "At  night, 
when  you  are  sleeping  on  my  heart,  I  hear  in  the  silence  o£ 
the  night  a  drop  falling,  slowly  falling,  always  falling,  so 
near,  so  far !  I  hear,  at  night,  the  drop  falling  from  my 
heart,  the  blood  that,  drop  by  drop,  falls  from  my  heart, 
when  you  are  sleeping,  when  you  are  sleeping,  I  alone." 
High  purple  curtains,  dark  as  a  merciless  passion,  around  a 
bed  deep  as  a  sepulchre — that  is  what  is  evoked  by  the  Erotic 
of  Edward  Grieg;  and  also  a  promise  of  death  in  silent 
voluptuousness,  and  a  boundless  kingdom,  rich  in  all  the 
wealth  of  the  earth,  waiting  in  vain  for  its  vanished  king, 
its  dying  king,  in  the  nuptial  and  funereal  purple.  But,  in 
the  prelude  to  "Tristan  and  Ysolde,"  the  leap  of  love 
toward  death  was  unchained  with  inconceivable  violence; 
the  insatiable  desire  was  exalted  even  to  the  intoxication 
of  destruction.  "  .  .  .  To  drink  yonder  the  cup  of 
eternal  love  in  thy  honor,  I  would,  on  the  same  altar,  con- 
secrate thee  to  death  with  myself." 

And  that  immense  wave  of  harmony  irresistibly  envel- 
oped them  both,  closed  in  on  them,  carried  them  away, 
transported  them  to  "  the  marvellous  empire." 

It  was  not  by  means  of  the  miserable  instrument,  inca- 
pable of  giving  the  slightest  echo  of  that  torrential  pleni- 
tude, but  in  the  eloquence,  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the  exe- 
gesis, that  Hippolyte  seized  all  the  grandeur  of  that  tragic- 
Revelation.  And,  as  the  lover's  imagery  had  one  day 
pictured  to  her  the  Guelph's  deserted  city,  the  city  of  con- 
vents and  monasteries,  so  to-day  appeared  to  her  imagina- 
tion the  old,  gray  city  town  of  Bayreuth,  solitary  among  the 
Bavarian  mountains,  in  a  mystic  landscape  over  which 
hovered  the  same  soul  that  Albrecht  Diirer  imprisoned  be- 
neath the  network  of  the  lines  at  the  bottom  of  his  engrav- 
ings and  canvases. 


364  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

George  had  not  forgotten  any  episode  of  his  first  relig- 
ious pilgrimage  to  the  Ideal  Theatre ;  he  could  relive  every 
instant  of  his  extraordinary  emotion  when  he  had  discovered 
on  the  gentle  hill,  at  the  extremity  of  the  great  shady 
avenue,  the  edifice  consecrated  to  the  supreme  feast  of  art ; 
he  could  reconstitute  the  solemnity  of  the  vast  amphitheatre 
girt  with  columns  and  arcades,  the  mystery  of  the  Mystic 
Gulf.  In  the  religious  shadow  and  silence  of  the  place, 
in  the  shadow  and  ecstatic  silence  of  every  soul,  a  sigh 
went  up  from  the  invisible  orchestra,  a  moan  was  uttered, 
a  murmuring  voice  made  the  first  mournful  call  of  soli- 
tary desire,  the  first  and  confused  anguish  in  presenti- 
ment of  the  future  torture.  And  that  sigh  and  that  moan 
and  that  voice  mounted  from  the  vague  suffering  to  the 
acuteness  of  an  impetuous  cry,  telling  of  the  pride  of  a 
dream,  the  anxiety  of  a  superhuman  aspiration,  the  terrible 
and  implacable  desire  of  possession.  With  a  devouring 
fury,  like  a  flame  bursting  from  a  bottomless  abyss,  the 
desire  dilated,  agitated,  enflamed,  always  higher,  always 
higher,  fed  by  the  purest  essence  of  a  double  life.  The 
intoxication  of  the  melodious  flame  embraced  everything; 
everything  sovereign  in  the  world  vibrated  passionately  in 
the  immense  ravishment,  exhaled  its  joy  and  most  hidden 
sorrow,  while  it  was  sublimated  and  consumed.  But,  sud- 
denly, the  efforts  of  a  resistance,  the  cholers  of  a  battle, 
shuddered  and  rumbled  in  the  flight  of  that  stormy  ascen- 
sion ;  and  that  great  spout  of  life,  suddenly  broken  against  an 
invisible  obstacle,  fell  back  again,  died  out,  spouted  forth 
no  longer.  In  the  religious  shadow  and  silence  of  the  place, 
in  the  shadow  and  thrilling  silence  of  every  soul,  a  sigh  arose 
from  the  Mystic  Gulf,  a  moan  died  away,  a  broken  voice 
told  of  the  sadness  of  eternal  solitude,  the  aspiration  toward 
the  eternal  night,  toward  the  divine,  the  primal  oblivion, 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  365 

And  here  another  voice,  a  human  voice,  modulated  by 
human  lips,  young  and  strong,  mingled  with  melancholy, 
irony,  and  menace,  sang  a  song  of  the  sea,  from  the  head 
of  a  mast,  on  the  ship  that  carried  to  King  Mark  the  blond 
Irish  spouse.  It  sang :  "  Toward  the  Occident  wanders  the 
gaze ;  toward  the  Orient  sails  the  ship.  The  breeze  blows 
fresh  toward  the  natal  land.  O  daughter  of  Ireland,  where 
dost  thou  linger  ?  Is  it  thy  sighs  that  swell  my  sail  ? 
Blow,  blow,  O  wind  !  Woe,  ah  !  woe,  daughter  of  Ire- 
land, my  wild  love  !"  It  was  the  admonition  of  the 
lookout,  the  prophetic  warning,  joyous  and  menacing,  full 
of  caress  and  of  raillery,  indefinable.  And  the  orchestra  be- 
came silent.  "  Blow,  blow,  O  wind  !  Woe,  ah  !  woe,  daugh- 
ter of  Ireland,  my  wild  love  !  "  The  voice  sang  over  the 
tranquil  sea,  alone  in  the  silence,  while  under  the  tent, 
Ysolde,  motionless,  on  her  couch,  seemed  plunged  in  the 
obscure  dream  of  her  destiny. 

Thus  opened  the  drama.  The  tragic  breath,  that  had 
already  been  given  by  the  prelude,  passed  and  repassed  in 
the  orchestra.  Suddenly  the  power  of  destruction  was  mani- 
fested in  the  enchantress  against  the  man  of  her  choice, 
whom  she  had  devoted  to  death.  Her  anger  was  unchained 
with  the  energy  of  the  blind  elements;  she  invoked  all  the 
terrible  forces  of  earth  and  heaven  to  destroy  the  man 
whom  she  could  not  possess.  "  Awake  at  my  call,  indomi- 
table power;  come  forth  from  the  heart  where  thou  art 
hidden  !  O,  uncertain  winds,  hear  my  will !  Awake  the 
lethargy  of  this  dreamy  sea,  resuscitate  from  the  depths 
implacable  covetousness,  show  it  the  prey  which  I  offer ! 
Crush  the  vessel,  engulf  the  wreckage  !  Everything  that 
palpitates  and  breathes,  O  winds,  I  give  to  thee  in  rec- 
ompense." To  the  admonition  of  the  lookout  responded 
the  sentiment  of  Brangane  :  "  O,  woe  !  what  ruin  I  foresee, 


566  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

Ysolde  !  "  And  the  gentle  and  devoted  woman  tried  to 
appease  that  mad  fury.  "  Oh!  tell  me  thy  sorrow,  Ysolde  ! 
Tell  me  thy  secret !  "  And  Ysolde  replied  :  "  My  heart  is 
choking.  Open,  open  wide  the  curtain  !  " 

Tristan  appeared,  upright,  motionless,  his  arms  crossed, 
his  gaze  fixed  on  the  distances  of  the  sea.  From  the  mast- 
head the  lookout  resumed  his  song,  on  the  wave  mounting 
from  the  orchestra,  "Woe,  ah!  woe — "  And,  while 
Ysolde's  eyes,  lit  up  by  a  sombre  flame,  contemplated  the 
hero,  the  fatal  motif  arose  from  the  Mystic  Gulf :  the 
great  and  terrible  symbol  of  love  and  death,  in  which  was 
enclosed  every  essence  of  the  tragic  fiction.  And,  with 
her  own  mouth,  Ysolde  predicted  the  end :  "  Chosen  of 
mine,  lost  by  me." 

Passion  aroused  in  her  a  homicidal  mania,  awakened  in 
the  roots  of  her  being  a  hostile  instinct  to  existence,  a 
need  of  dissolution,  of  annihilation.  She  raged  to  find  in 
herself  and  all  about  her  a  crushing  power  that  would 
strike  and  destroy  without  leaving  a  trace.  Her  hate  became 
fiercer  at  the  sight  of  the  calm  and  motionless  hero,  who 
felt  the  menace  concentrate  upon  his  head  and  who  knew 
the  uselessness  of  any  resistance.  Her  mouth  was  filled 
with  bitter  sarcasm.  "  What  thinkest  thou  of  that  slave  ?  " 
she  demanded  of  Brangane,  with  an  uneasy  smile.  Of  a 
hero  she  made  a  slave ;  she  declared  herself  the  conqueror. 
"  Tell  him  that  I,  Ysolde,  command  my  vassal  to  fear  his 
sovereign."  Such  was  the  defiance  she  cast  at  him  for  a 
supreme  struggle ;  such  was  the  gauntlet  that  force  threw 
down  to  force.  A  sombre  solemnity  accompanied  the  hero's 
march  toward  the  threshold  of  the  tent  when  the  irrevoca- 
ble hour  had  sounded,  when  the  philter  had  already  filled 
the  cup,  when  destiny  had  already  closed  its  circle  around 
the  two  lives.  Ysolde,  leaning  on  her  couch,  pale  as  if  the 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  367 

great  fever  had  consumed  all  the  blood  in  her  veins,  waited, 
silently.  Tristan  appeared  on  the  threshold  :  both  erect  to 
their  full  height.  But  the  orchestra  told  of  the  inexpressible 
anxiety  of  their  souls. 

From  this  moment  recommenced  the  tempestuous  ascen- 
sion. It  seemed  that  the  Mystic  Gulf  had  once  more  be- 
come inflamed  like  a  furnace  and  shot  higher,  even  higher, 
its  sonorous  flames.  "  Only  comfort  for  an  eternal  mourn- 
ing, salutary  draught  of  oblivion,  I  drink  thee  without 
fear!  "  And  Tristan  placed  the  cup  to  his  lips.  "  Half 
for  me!  I  drink  it  for  thee!"  cried  Ysolde,  snatching 
the  cup  from  his  hands.  The  golden  cup  fell,  empty.  Had 
they  both  drunk  death?  Must  they  die  ?  Instant  of  super- 
human agony.  The  philter  of  death  was  but  a  poison  of 
love  that  filled  them  with  an  immortal  fire.  At  first,  aston- 
ished, motionless,  they  looked  at  each  other,  sought  in  one 
another's  eyes  the  symptom  of  the  death  to  which  they  be- 
lieved they  had  devoted  themselves.  But  a  new  life,  incom- 
parably more  intense  than  that  they  had  lived,  agitated  their 
very  fibre,  beat  at  their  temples  and  at  their  wrists,  swelled 
their  hearts  with  an  immense  wave.  "  Tristan  !  "  "  Ysol- 
de !"  They  called  one  another ;  they  were  alone  ;  nothing 
breathed  about  them ;  appearances  were  effaced ;  the  past 
was  wiped  out ;  the  future  was  a  dark  night  that  even  their 
recent  intoxication  could  not  pierce.  They  lived;  they 
called  one  another  in  hot,  passionate  tones ;  each  was  drawn 
to  the  other  by  a  fatality  that  henceforth  no  power  could 
arrest.  ' '  Tristan  !  "  "  Ysolde  ! ' ' 

And  the  melody  of  the  passion  spread  out,  enlarged, 
exalted  itself,  throbbed  and  sobbed,  cried  and  chanted 
above  the  profound  tempest  of  harmonies  that  became 
more  and  more  agitated.  Mournful  and  joyous,  it  took  an 
irresistible  flight  towajd  the  heights  of  unknown  ecstasies, 


368  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DfcATH. 

toward  the  heights  of  the  supreme  voluptuousness.  "  Deliv- 
ered from  the  world,  I  possess  thee  at  last,  O  !  thou,  who 
alone  fill  my  soul,  supreme  voluptuousness  of  love  !  " 

"  Hail  !  Hail  to  Mark  !  Hail  !  "  cried  the  crew  amid 
the  blasts  of  the  trumpets,  saluting  the  king,  who  drew 
away  from  the  shore  to  go  to  meet  his  blond  spouse.  "  Hail 
to  Cornwall  !  " 

It  was  the  tumult  of  common  life,  the  clamor  of  profane 
joy,  the  dazzling  splendor  of  the  day.  The  Elect,  the  Lost, 
with  a  look  in  which  floated  the  sombre  shadow  of  a  dream, 
demanded  :  "  Who  comes  hither  ?"  "  The  King."  "  What 
king  ? ' '  Ysolde,  pale  and  convulsed  beneath  the  royal 
mantle,  asked  :  "  Where  am  I  ?  Do  I  still  live  ?  Must  I 
still  live?"  Gentle  and  terrible,  the  motif  of  the  philter 
ascended,  enveloped  them,  enclosed  them  in  its  ardent 
spiral.  The  trumpets  sounded.  "  Hail  to  Mark  !  Hail 
to  Cornwall !  Glory  to  the  King  !  " 

But,  in  the  second  prelude,  all  the  sobs  of  too  strong  a  joy, 
all  the  pantings  of  exasperated  desire,  all  the  starts  of  fu- 
rious expectation,  alternated,  mingled,  were  confounded. 
The  impatience  of  the  feminine  soul  communicated  its 
thrills  to  the  immensity  of  the  night,  to  all  the  things  that, 
in  the  pure  summer  night,  breathed  and  watched.  The 
ravished  soul  threw  its  appeals  to  everything,  that  they 
might  remain  vigilant  beneath  the  stars,  that  they  might  be 
present  at  the  festival  of  its  love,  at  the  nuptial  banquet  of 
its  joy.  Insubmergible  over  the  restless  ocean  of  harmony, 
the  fatal  melody  floated,  growing  light,  clouding.  The 
wave  from  the  Mystic  Gulf,  like  the  respiration  of  a  super- 
human bosom,  swelled,  rose,  fell  back  to  rise  again,  to  fall 
again  and  slowly  die  away. 

"  Dost  thou  hear  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  the  sound  has 
died  away  in  the  distance."  Ysolde  heard  nothing  more 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  39 

but  the  sounds  imagined  by  her  desire.     The  horns  of  the 
nocturnal  chase  resounded  in  the  forest,  distinct,  coming 
nearer.     "  It  is  the  deceptive  whispering  of  the  leaves  that 
the  wind  rustles  in  its  sport.     That  gentle  sound  is  not  that 
of  horns ;  it  is  the  murmur  of  the  mountain  stream  that 
gushes  forth  and  falls  in  the  silent  night."     She  heard 
nothing  but  the  enchanting  sounds  born  in  her  soul  by  the 
desire  left  there  by  the  old  yet  ever  new  charm.     In  the 
orchestra,  as  in  her  abused  senses,  the  resonances  of  the 
chase  were  magically  transformed,  dissolving  into  the  infi- 
nite murmurs  of  the  forest,  into  the  mysterious  eloquence 
of  the  summer  night.     All  those  smothered  voices,  all  the 
subtle  seductions,  enveloped  the  panting  woman  and  sug- 
gested to  her  the  approaching  ravishment,  while  Brangane 
warned  and  begged  in  vain,  in  the  terror  of  his  presentiment : 
"  Oh  !  let  the  protecting  torch  blaze  !   Let  its  light  show  thee 
the  peril  !  "     Nothing  had  the  power  of  enlightening  the 
blindness  of  desire.     "  Were  this  the  torch  of  my  life,  I 
would  extinguish   it   without   fear.      And  I  extinguish  it 
without  fear."      With  a  gesture  of    supreme   disdain,  in- 
trepid and  superb,  Ysolde  threw  the  torch  to  the  ground ; 
she  offered  her  life  and  that  of  the  Elect  to  the  fatal  night ; 
she  entered  with  him  into  the  shadow  forever. 

Then  the  most  intoxicating  poem  of  human  passion  was 
triumphantly  unfolded,  like  a  spiral,  to  the  summits  of 
delirium  and  ecstasy.  It  was  the  first  frantic  embrace,  the 
mingling  of  voluptuousness  and  of  anguish,  in  which  the 
souls,  eager  to  melt  into  one  another,  encountered  the  im- 
penetrable obstacle  of  the  body;  it  was  the  first  rancor 
against  the  time  when  love  did  not  exist,  against  the  empty 
and  useless  past.  It  was  the  hate  against  hostile  light, 
against  the  perfidious  day,  that  sharpened  all  their  sufferings, 
that  revived  all  the  fallacious  appearances,  that  favored 
24 


370  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

pride  and  oppressed  tenderness.  It  was  the  hymn  to  the 
friendly  night,  to  the  beneficent  shade,  to  the  divine  mystery 
of  which  the  marvels  and  inner  visions  were  unveiled,  in 
which  were  heard  the  distant  voices  of  the  spheres,  in  which 
the  ideal  corollas  flourished  on  inflexible  stems.  "  Since 
the  sun  is  hidden  in  our  bosom,  the  stars  of  happiness  shed 
their  laughing  light." 

And,  in  the  orchestra,  spoke  every  eloquence,  sang  every 
joy,  wept  every  misery,  that  the  human  voice  had  ever 
expressed.  The  melodies  emerged  from  the  symphonic 
depths,  developing,  interrupting,  superposing,  mingling, 
melting  into  one  another,  dissolving,  disappearing  to  again 
appear.  A  more  and  more  restless  and  poignant  anxiety 
passed  over  all  the  instruments  and  expressed  a  continual 
and  ever-vain  effort  to  attain  the  inaccessible.  In  the  im- 
petuosity of  the  chromatic  progressions  there  was  the  mad 
pursuit  of  a  happiness  that  eluded  every  grasp,  although  it 
shone  ever  so  near.  In  the  changings  of  the  tone,  rhythm, 
and  measure,  in  the  succession  of  syncopes,  there  was  a 
truceless  search,  there  was  a  limitless  covetousness,  there 
was  the  long  torture  of  desire  ever  deceived  and  ever  extin- 
guished. A  motif,  a  symbol  of  eternal  desire,  eternally 
exasperated  by  a  deceptive  possession,  returned  every  instant 
with  a  cruel  persistence ;  it  enlarged,  it  dominated,  now 
illuminating  the  crests  of  the  harmonic  waves,  now  obscur- 
ing them  with  funereal  darkness. 

The  frightful  power  of  the  philter  operated  on  the  soul 
and  on  the  flesh  of  the  two  lovers  already  consecrated  to 
death.  Nothing  could  extinguish  or  soften  that  fatal 
ardor ;  nothing,  except  death.  They  had  vainly  tried  every 
caress;  they  had  vainly  summoned  all  their  strength  to 
unite  in  a  supreme  embrace,  to  finally  possess  one  another, 
to  become  one  and  the  same  being.  Their  sighs  of  volup- 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  37 1 

tuousness  were  transformed  into  agonizing  sobs.  An  infran- 
gible obstacle  was  interposed  between  them,  separated 
them,  rendered  them  strangers  and  solitary.  The  obstacle 
was  their  corporeal  substance,  their  living  personality.  And 
a  secret  hate  was  born  in  both.  A  longing  to  destroy 
themselves,  to  annihilate  themselves ;  a  desire  to  cause  death 
and  a  desire  to  die.  Even  in  the  caress  they  recognized 
the  impossibility  of  crossing  the  material  limits  of  their 
human  senses.  Lips  met  lips  and  stopped.  "  Why  not 
succumb  to  death,"  said  Tristan,  "  rather  than  separation, 
and  what  prevents  Tristan  from  loving  Ysolde  forever,  liv- 
ing hereafter  eternally  for  her  alone  ?  ' '  And  already  they 
entered  into  the  infinite  darkness.  The  outside  world  disap- 
peared. "So,"  said  Tristan,  "  so  should  we  die,  unwill- 
ing to  live  but  for  love,  inseparable,  forever  united,  with- 
out end,  without  awakening,  without  fear,  without  name  in 
the  bosom  of  love."  The  words  were  distinctly  heard  in 
the  pianissimo  of  the  orchestra.  A  new  ecstasy  ravished 
the  two  lovers  and  carried  them  to  the  threshold  of  the 
marvellous  nocturnal  empire.  Already  they  tasted  in  ad- 
vance the  beatitude  of  dissolution,  felt  themselves  deliv- 
ered from  the  weight  of  the  body,  felt  their  substance  sub- 
limated and  float,  diffused  in  an  endless  joy.  "  Without  end, 
without  awakening,  without  fear,  without  name.  .  .  ." 

"  Take  care  !  Take  care  !  Behold  the  night  giving  way 
to  the  day,"  warned  from  above  the  invisible  Brangane. 
"  Take  care  !  "  And  the  shudder  of  the  matinal  frost  trav- 
ersed the  park,  awoke  the  flowers.  The  cold  light  of  the 
dawn  ascended  slowly  and  covered  up  the  stars  that  palpi- 
tated more  strongly.  "  Take  care  !  "  Vain  warning  of  the 
faithful  watcher.  They  were  not  listening ;  they  would  not, 
could  not,  awaken  themselves.  Under  the  menace  of  the 
day,  they  plunged  still  further  on  into  that  darkness  from 


372  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

which  could  never  come  the  slightest  glint  of  twilight. 
"  Let  the  night  eternally  envelop  us."  And  a  whirlwind 
of  harmonies  enveloped  them,  clasped  them  close  in  its 
vehement  spirals,  transformed  them  to  the  distant  shore 
invoked  by  their  desire,  there  where  no  anguish  oppressed 
the  flights  of  the  loving  soul,  beyond  all  languor,  beyond 
all  pain,  beyond  all  solitude,  in  the  infinite  serenity  of 
their  supreme  dream. 

"  Save  thyself,  Tristan  !  "  It  was  the  cry  of  Kurvenal 
after  the  cry  of  Brangane.  It  was  the  unexpected  and 
brutal  assault  that  interrupted  the  ecstatic  embrace.  And, 
while  the  theme  of  love  persisted  in  the  orchestra,  the  motif 
of  the  hunt  burst  out  with  a  metallic  clash.  The  king  and 
his  courtiers  appeared.  Tristan  hid  Ysolde,  stretched  on 
the  bed  of  flowers,  beneath  his  ample  mantle ;  he  hid  her 
from  both  gaze  and  light,  affirming  by  this  act  his  domina- 
tion, signifying  his  undoubted  right.  "  The  sad  day — for 
the  last  time  !  "  For  the  last  time,  in  the  calm  and  reso- 
lute attitude  of  a  hero,  he  accepted  the  battle  with  the 
unknown  forces,  sure  henceforth  that  nothing  could  mod- 
ify or  suspend  the  course  of  his  destiny.  While  the  sover- 
eign sorrow  of  King  Mark  was  exhaled  in  a  slow  and  deep 
melopee,  he  remained  silent,  immovable  in  his  secret 
thought.  And  finally  he  responded  to  the  king's  questions  : 
"  Never  can  I  reveal  that  mystery.  Never  can  you  know 
what  thou  dost  ask."  The  philter  motif  condensed  in  this 
response  the  obscurity  of  the  mystery,  the  gravity  of  the 
irreparable  event.  "  Dost  thou  wish  to  follow  Tristan,  O, 
Ysolde?"  he  demanded  of  the  queen,  simply,  in  the 
presence  of  all.  "  In  the  land  where  I  am  going  the  sun 
does  not  shine.  It  is  the  land  of  shadows ;  it  is  the  land 
of  night  from  which  my  mother  sent  me  when,  conceived  by 
her  in  death,  in  death  I  came  to  life."  And  Ysolde: 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  373 

"  There  where  the  country  of  Tristan  is,  there  would  Ysolde 
go.  She  wants  to  follow  him,  gentle  and  faithful,  in  the 
path  that  he  will  point  out." 

And  the  dying  hero  preceded  her  to  that  land,  struck  by 
the  traitor  Melot. 

Meanwhile,  the  third  prelude  evoked  the  vision  of  the 
distant  shore,  the  arid  and  desolate  rocks,  where,  in  the 
secret  caves,  the  sea  seemed  to  weep  ceaselessly  in  incon- 
solable mourning.  A  mist  of  legend  and  of  mysterious 
poesy  enveloped  the  rigid  forms  of  the  rock,  perceived  as 
in  an  uncertain  dawn  or  in  an  almost  extinguished  twilight. 
And  the  sound  of  the  pastoral  pipe  awoke  the  confused 
images  of  the  past  life,  of  the  things  lost  in  the  night  of 

time. 

"What  says   the   ancient    lament?"     sighed    Tristan. 

"Where  am  I  ?  " 

On  the  fragile  reed  the  shepherd  modulated  the  imper- 
ishable melody  transmitted  by  our  ancestors  through  the 
ages  ;  and,  in  his  profound  unconsciousness,  he  was  without 
inquietude. 

And  Tristan,  to  whose  soul  these  humble  notes  had  re- 
vealed all :  "  I  did  not  linger  in  the  place  of  my  awakening. 
But  where  have  I  dwelt  ?  I  could  not  say.  There  I  saw 
neither  the  sun,  nor  the  land,  nor  the  inhabitants ;  but  what 
I  saw  then,  I  could  not  say.  ...  It  was  there  where  I 
always  was,  there  where  I  will  go  forever ;  in  the  vast  empire 
of  the  universal  night.  Yonder,  a  single  and  unique 
science  is  given  us  :  the  divine,  the  eternal,  the  original 
oblivion  !  "  The  delirium  of  fever  agitated  him ;  the  ardor 
of  the  philter  corroded  his  inmost  fibres.  "  Oh  !  what  I 
suffer  thou  canst  not  suffer!  The  terrible  desire  which 
devours  me,  that  implacable  fire  which  consumes  me  !  Ah  ! 
if  I  could  tell  thee  !  If  thou  couldst  understand  me  !  " 


374  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

And  tl  e  unconscious  shepherd  breathed,  breathed  into 
his  reed.  It  was  the  same  air ;  the  notes  were  always  the 
same ;  they  spoke  of  the  life  that  was  no  more,  they  spoke 
of  distant  and  annihilated  things. 

"  Old  and  grave  melody,"  said  Tristan.  "  Your  lament- 
ing sounds  reached  me  even  on  the  evening  wind,  as  when, 
in  distant  times,  the  death  of  the  father  was  announced  to 
the  son.  In  the  sinister  dawn  thou  didst  seek  me,  more  and 
more  uneasy,  when  the  son  learned  of  the  departure  of  the 
mother.  When  my  father  engendered  me  and  died,  when 
my  mother  brought  me  to  light  and  died,  the  old  melody 
came  to  their  ears  also,  languishing  and  sad.  She  inter- 
rogated me  one  day,  and  now  she  is  speaking  to  me  again. 
To  what  destiny  was  I  born  ?  To  what  destiny  ?  The 
old  melody  is  repeating  it  to  me :  To  desire  and  to  die  ! 
to  die  of  desire  !  Oh !  no,  no.  Such  is  not  your  true 
sense.  To  desire,  to  desire,  to  desire,  even  unto  death ; 
but  not  to  die  of  desire!"  Stronger  and  stronger,  more 
and  more  tenacious,  the  philter  corroded  him  to  the  mar- 
row. All  his  being  writhed  in  the  unbearable  spasm.  At 
moments,  the  orchestra  had  the  crepitations  of  a  fu- 
nereal pyre.  The  violence  of  the  pain  traversed  him  at 
times  with  tempestuous  impetuosity,  reviving  the  flames. 
Sudden  starts  shook  him;  atrocious  cries  escaped  from  it; 
choking  sobs  were  extinguished  in  it.  "  The  philter ! 
the  philter !  the  terrible  philter !  with  what  fury  I  feel  it 
mount  from  my  heart  to  my  brain  !  Henceforth  no  remedy, 
no  sweet  death,  can  deliver  me  from  the  torture  of  desire. 
In  no  place,  in  no  spot,  alas  !  shall  I  find  repose.  The 
night  repulses  me  toward  the  day,  and  the  eye  of  the  sun 
feeds  on  my  perpetual  suffering.  Ah  !  how  the  ardent  sun 
burns  me  and  consumes  me  !  And  not  even  to  have,  never 
to  have,  the  refreshment  of  a  shade  for  that  devouring  ardor  ! 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  375 

What  balm  would  procure  a  relief  to  my  horrible  torture  ?  " 
He  bore  in  his  veins  and  marrow  the  desire  of  all  men,  of 
every  species,  amassed  generation  after  generation,  aggra- 
vated by  the  faults  of  all  the  fathers  and  of  all  the  sons, 
the  intoxications  of  all,  the  anguishes  of  all.  In  his  blood 
blossomed  the  germs  of  the  secular  concupiscence,  remin- 
gled  the  most  diverse  impurities,  refermented  the  venoms, 
the  most  subtle  and  violent,  that,  since  immemorial  ages, 
the  purplish  sinuous  mouths  of  women  had  poured  out  on 
eager  and  subjugated  males.  He  was  the  heir  of  the  eter- 
nal evil.  "  That  terrible  philter  which  condemns  me  to 
torture,  it  is  I,  I  myself,  who  have  compounded  it.  With 
the  agitations  of  my  father,  with  the  convulsions  of  my 
mother,  with  all  the  tears  of  love  shed  in  other  times,  with 
laughter  and  with  tears,  with  pleasures  and  with  wounds,  I 
myself  have  compounded  the  poison  of  that  philter.  And 
I  have  drunk  it  by  deep,  enjoyable  draughts.  A  curse  on 
thee,  terrible  philter !  A  curse  on  he  who  compounded 
thee !  "  And  he  fell  back  on  his  couch,  exhausted, 
inanimate,  to  recover  his  equanimity,  to  feel  once  more 
the  ardor  of  his  wound,  to  see  once  more  with  his  halluci- 
nated eyes  the  sovereign  image  crossing  the  fields  of  the 
sea.  "  She  is  coming,  she  is  coming  towards  land,  softly 
rocked  on  the  great  waves  of  intoxicating  flowers.  Her 
smile  throws  on  me  a  divine  consolation  ;  she  brings  me  the 
supreme  refreshment."  Thus  he  invoked,  thus  he  saw,  with 
his  eyes  closed  henceforth  to  the  common  light,  the  sorceress, 
the  mistress  of  balms,  the  healer  of  all  wounds.  "She  comes, 
she  comes !  Dost  thou  not  see  her,  Kurvenal ;  dost  thou 
not  see  her  ?  "  And  the  agitated  waves  of  the  Mystic  Gulf 
gathered  confusedly  from  the  depths  all  the  melodies  already 
heard,  mingling  them,  raising  them  up,  submerging  them 
in  an  abyss,  repulsing  them  again  to  the  surface,  crushing 


376  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

them  :  those  that  could  have  expressed  the  anguish  of  the 
decisive  conflict  on  the  bridge  of  the  ship,  those  in  which 
one  heard  the  boiling  of  the  draught  poured  into  the 
golden  cup  and  the  buzzing  in  the  arteries  invaded  by  the 
liquid  fire,  those  in  which  had  been  heard  the  mysterious 
breath  of  the  summer  night  inviting  voluptuousness  without 
end,  all  the  melodies,  with  all  the  images  and  all  the  recol- 
lections. And  on  this  immense  shipwreck  the  fatal  mel- 
ody passed,  proud,  sovereign,  implacable,  repeating  at  inter- 
vals the  atrocious  condemnation :  "  To  desire,  to  desire,  to 
desire  even  unto  death :  but  not  to  die  of  desire  !  " 

"  The  vessel  drops  its  anchor  !  Ysolde  !  behold  Ysolde  ! 
She  springs  to  the  shore  !  "  cried  Kurvenal  from  the  top  of 
the  tower.  And,  in  the  delirium  of  joy,  Tristan  tore  off 
the  bandages  of  his  wound,  excited  his  own  blood  to  flow, 
to  inundate  the  earth,  to  empurple  the  world.  At  the  ap- 
proach of  Ysolde  and  Death,  he  believed  he  heard  the 
light.  "  Do  I  not  hear  the  light  ?  Do  not  my  ears  hear 
the  light?"  A  great  inner  sun  dazzled  him;  every  atom 
of  his  substance  darted  rays  of  sunlight  that,  in  luminous 
waves,  expanded  through  the  universe.  The  light  was  music ; 
the  music  was  light. 

And  then  the  Mystic  Gulf  truly  became  irradiated  like 
a  sky.  The  sonorities  of  the  orchestra  seemed  to  imitate 
those  distant  planetary  harmonies  that,  long  ago,  the  souls  of 
vigilant  contemplators  believed  they  surprised  in  the  noc- 
turnal silence.  Gradually,  the  long  tremblings  of  restless- 
ness, the  long  bursts  of  anguish,  the  pantings  of  vain  pur- 
suits, and  the  efforts  of  the  ever-deceived  desire,  and  all 
the  agitations  of  terrestrial  misery,  were  appeased,  became 
dissipated.  Tristan  had  finally  crossed  the  limit  of  the 
"  marvellous  empire  "  ;  he  had  finally  entered  into  eternal 
night.  And  Ysolde,  bent  over  the  inert  shell,  felt  at  last 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  377 

the  heavy   weight  that  still   crushed  her  slowly  dissolve. 
The  fatal  melody,  become  clearer  and  more  solemn,  conse- 
crated the  great  funereal  hymn.     Then  the  notes,  like  ethe- 
real chords,  began  to  weave  about  the  lover  veils  of  diapha- 
nous purity.      Thus  commenced  a  sort  of  joyous  assump- 
tion, by  degrees  of  splendor,   on   the  wing  of   a   hymn. 
"  What  a  sweet  smile  he  is  smiling  !      Dost  thou  not  see  ? 
Dost  thou  not  hear  ?     Am  I  alone  to  hear  that  new  melody, 
infinitely  sweet  and  consoling,  that  streams  from  the  depths 
of  his  being,  and  ravishes  me,  and  penetrates  me,  and  envel- 
ops me?"     The  Irish  sorceress,  the  formidable  mistress 
of  philters,  the  hereditary  arbitrator  of  obscure  terrestrial 
powers,   she   who,    from    the    tops   of   the   ship,    had   in- 
voked the  whirlwinds  and  tempests,  she  whose  love  had 
chosen  the  strongest  and  most  noble  of  heroes  to  intoxicate 
and  destroy  him,  she  who  had  closed  the  path  of  glory  and 
victory  to  a  "  conqueror  of  the  world,"  the  poisoner,  the 
homicide,  became  transfigured  by  the  power  of  death  into 
a  being  of  light  and  of  joy,  exempt  from  all  impure  cov- 
etousness,   free   from  all  base  attachment,  throbbing  and 
respiring  in  the  breast  of  the  diffused  soul  of  the  universe. 
"Are  not  these  clearer  sounds  that  murmur  in  my  ear  the  soft 
waves  of  the  air  ?     Must  I  respire,  drink,  plunge  myself, 
slowly  drift  in  the  vapors  and  perfumes  ?  "     All  in  her  dis- 
solved, melted,  dilated,  returned  to  the  original  fluidity,  to 
the  immense  elementary  ocean  in  which  the  forms  were 
born,  in  which  the  forms  disappeared  to  become  renewed 
and  to  be  reborn.     In  the   Mystic   Gulf   the  transforma- 
tions and  transfigurations  were  being  accomplished,  note  by 
note,  harmony  by  harmony,  without  interruption.    It  seemed 
as  if  all   things    there  were    decomposed,   exhaling  their 
hidden  essences,  changing  into  immaterial  symbols.      Col- 
ors never  before  seen  on  petals  of  the  most  delicate  terres- 


378  THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH. 

trial  flowers,  perfumes  of  an  almost  imperceptible  subtlety, 
floated  there.  Visions  of  secret  paradises  were  revealed  in 
a  flash  of  light;  the  germs  of  worlds  to  be  born  blos- 
somed there.  And  the  panicky  intoxication  ascended, 
ascended ;  the  chorus  of  the  Great  All  covered  the  unique 
human  voice.  Transfigured,  Ysolde  entered  into  the  marvel- 
lous empire  triumphantly.  "  To  lose  oneself,  to  throw 
oneself  into  the  abyss,  to  swoon  without  consciousness  in 
the  infinite  throbbing  of  the  universal  soul :  supreme  volup- 
tuousness." 


CHAPTER   II. 

FOR  two  entire  days  the  two  hermits  lived  thus  amid 
great  fiction,  respired  that  burning  atmosphere,  saturated 
themselves  with  that  mortal  forgetfulness.  They  believed 
they  had  transfigured  themselves,  that  they  had  attained 
superior  heights  of  existence.  In  the  vertiginous  heights  of 
their  love-dream  they  believed  they  equalled  the  personages 
in  the  drama.  Did  it  not  seem  to  them  that  they,  too,  had 
drunk  a  philter  ?  Were  not  they  also  tormented  by  a  lim- 
itless desire  ?  Were  they  not  also  linked  together  by  an 
indissoluble  bond,  and  did  they  not  often  feel  in  volup- 
tuousness the  horrors  of  the  death-agony;  did  they  not 
hear  the  rumbling  of  death  ?  George,  like  Tristan  when 
he  heard  the  ancient  melody  modulated  by  the  shepherd, 
found  in  that  music  the  direct  revelation  of  an  anguish  in 
which  he  believed  he  had  at  last  surprised  the  true  essence  of 
his  soul  and  the  tragic  secret  of  his  destiny.  No  man  could 
better  penetrate  the  symbolic  and  mythical  sense  of  the 
philter,  and  no  man  better  than  himself  could  better  meas- 
ure the  depth  of  the  inner  drama,  solely  inner,  in  which  the 
pensive  hero  had  consumed  his  strength.  Nor  could  any 
one  better  understand  the  despairing  cry  of  the  victim : 
"  That  terrible  philter  which  has  condemned  me  to  tor- 
ture, it  is  I,  I  my  self,  who  compounded  it." 

He  then  undertook  the  funereal  seduction  of  his  mistress. 
He  wished  to  slowly  persuade  her  to  die;  he  wished  to 
entice  her  to  go  with  him  toward  a  mysterious  and  comfort* 


380  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

able  end,  during  that  beautiful  Adriatic  summer,  full  of 
transparencies  and  perfumes.  The  great  phrase  of  love — 
that  spread  out  in  such  a  wide  circle  of  light  around  the 
transfiguration  of  Ysolde — had  also  enclosed  Hippolyte  in 
its  charm.  She  repeated  it  ceaselessly  in  alow  tone,  some- 
times even  in  a  loud  voice,  with  signs  of  exuberant  joy. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  to  die  such  a  death  as  Ysolde's?" 
asked  George,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  would,"  she  answered.  "  But,  on  earth,  people 
don't  die  like  that." 

"  And  if  I  died  ?  "  he  went  on,  always  smiling.  "  Sup- 
pose you  saw  me  dead  in  fact,  not  in  fancy  ?  ' ' 

"  I  believe  I  should  die,  too,  but  of  despair." 

"  And  suppose  I  proposed  to  you  to  die  with  me,  at  the 
same  time,  in  the  same  manner  ?  " 

For  a  few  seconds  she  remained  thoughtful,  her  eyes  cast 
down.  Then,  raising  toward  the  tempter  a  look  full  of 
all  the  sweetness  of  life  : 

"Why  die,"  she  said,  "  if  I  love  you,  if  you  love  me, 
if  nothing  henceforth  prevents  us  from  living  for  ourselves 
alone?" 

"Is  life  sweet  to  you?"  he  murmured  with  veiled  bit- 
terness. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  sort  of  vehemence.  "  Life 
is  sweet  to  me  because  I  love  you." 

"And  if  I  should  die?"  he  went  on,  without  a  smile, 
because  once  more  he  felt  arise  in  him  the  instinctive  hos- 
tility against  this  beautiful,  sensual  creature  who  breathed 
in  the  very  air  as  if  it  were  happiness. 

"  You  won't  die,"  she  affirmed,  with  the  same  assurance. 
"  You  are  young ;  why  should  you  die?  " 

In  her  voice,  in  her  attitude,  in  all  her  person  there  was 
an  unusual  diffusion  of  happiness.  Her  appearance  was 


THE   INVINCIBLE. 


such  as  living  creatures  have  only  at  the  time  their  lives 
flow  harmoniously  in  a  temporary  equilibrium  of  all  the 
energies  in  accord  with  favorable  external  conditions. 
As  at  other  times,  she  seemed  to  blossom  in  the  strong  sea 
air,  in  the  coolness  of  the  summer  evening;  and  she 
recalled  one  of  those  magnificent  twilight  flowers  that 
open  the  crown  of  their  petals  at  sunset. 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  one  heard  the  murmur 
of  the  sea  on  the  shore  like  the  rustling  of  dry  leaves, 
George  asked  : 

"  Do  you  believe  in  Destiny  ?  " 
"Yes,  I  do." 

Ill  disposed  to  the  sad  gravity  toward  which  George's 
words  seemed  to  tend,  she  had  answered  in  a  light,  jesting 
tone.     Hurt,  he  retorted  quickly  and  bitterly  : 
"  Do  you  know  what  day  this  is  ?  " 
Perplexed,  uneasy,  she  asked  : 
"  What  day  is  it  ?" 

He  hesitated.  Up  to  then  he  had  avoided  recalling  to 
the  forgetful  woman  the  anniversary  of  Demetrius's  death  ; 
a  repugnance  that  grew  every  minute  prevented  him  from 
uttering  that  holy  name,  from  evoking  outside  of  the  sanc- 
tuary that  noble  image.  He  felt  that  he  would  have  pro- 
faned his  religious  sorrow  in  admitting  Hippolyte  as  a  par- 
ticipant. And  what  further  intensified  this  feeling  was  that 
he  was  then  passing  through  one  of  those  frequent  periods 
of  cruel  lucidity  in  which  he  saw  in  Hippolyte  only  the 
woman  of  pleasure,  the  "  flower  of  concupiscence,"  the 
Enemy.  He  contained  himself  ;  and,  with  a  sudden  and 
false  laugh  : 

"  Look  !  "  he  cried.     "  There  is  a  festival  at  Ortona." 
He  pointed  in  the  pale-green  distance  to  the  maritime 
city  that  was  being  crowned  with  fire. 


382  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  How  strange  you  are  to-day  !  "  she  said. 

Then,  looking  steadily  at  him  with  that  singular  ex- 
pression which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  assuming  when  she 
wished  to  appease  and  soften  him,  she  added  : 

"  Come  here ;  come  and  sit  by  my  side." 

He  was  standing  in  the  shadow,  on  the  threshold  of  one 
of  the  doors  that  opened  on  the  loggia.  She  was  seated 
outside,  on  the  parapet,  clothed  in  a  light,  white  robe,  in 
a  languorous  pose,  her  bust  outlined  against  the  background 
of  the  sea,  where  still  lingered  the  glints  of  twilight,  and 
the  profile  of  her  brown  head  was  outlined  in  a  zone  of  lim- 
pid amber.  He  seemed  as  if  reborn,  as  if  he  had  stepped 
out  from  a  close  and  suffocating  place,  from  an  atmosphere 
heavy  with  poisonous  exhalations.  In  George's  eyes  she 
seemed  as  if  she  were  evaporating  like  a  vial  of  perfumes, 
were  losing  the  ideal  life  accumulated  in  her  by  the  power 
of  Music,  were  gradually  emptying  herself  of  importunate 
dreams,  were  returning  to  primitive  animalism. 

George  thought :  "  As  always,  she  has  done  nothing  but 
receive  and  obediently  retain  the  attitudes  I  have  given  her. 
The  inner  life  has  always  been  and  will  always  be  factitious 
in  her.  Directly  my  suggestion  is  interrupted,  she  returns 
to  her  own  nature,  she  becomes  a  woman  again,  an  instru- 
ment of  low  lasciviousness.  Nothing  will  ever  change  her 
substance,  nothing  will  purify  her.  She  has  plebeian  blood, 
and,  in  her  blood,  God  knows  what  ignoble  heredities  ! 
But  I,  too,  shall  never  be  able  to  free  myself  from  the  desire 
with  which  she  fires  me ;  I  can  never  extirpate  it  from  my 
flesh.  Henceforth,  I  can  neither  live  with  her  nor  without 
her.  I  know  I  must  die  ;  but  shall  I  leave  her  for  a  suc- 
cessor?" His  hate  against  the  unconscious  creature  had 
never  been  aroused  with  so  much  violence.  He  dissected 
her  pitilessly,  with  acrimony  that  astonished  even  himself. 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  383 

It  was  as  if  he  were  avenging  some  infidelity,  some  disloy- 
alty, that  had  surpassed  all  the  limits  of  perfidy.  He  felt 
the  envious  rancor  of  the  shipwrecked  sailor  who,  at  the 
moment  of  sinking,  sees  near  him  his  comrade  about  to 
save  himself,  to  cling  to  life  again.  For  him  that  anniver- 
sary brought  a  new  confirmation  of  the  decree  which  he 
already  knew  was  irrevocable.  For  him  that  day  was  the 
Epiphany  of  Death.  He  felt  that  he  was  no  longer  master 
of  himself;  he  felt  the  absolute  domination  of  the  fixed 
idea  that,  from  instant  to  instant,  might  suggest  the  su- 
preme act  to  him,  and,  at  the  same  time,  communicate  the 
effective  impulsion  to  his  will.  And  while  criminal  images 
confusedly  passed  through  his  brain,  "  Must  I  die  alone  ?  " 
he  repeated  to  himself.  "  Must  I  die  alone  ?  " 

He  shuddered  when  Hippolyte  touched  his  face  and 
passed  her  arm  around  his  neck. 

"  Did  I  frighten  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

On  seeing  him  disappear  in  the  still  deepening  shadow 
of  the  door,  a  singular  restlessness  had  seized  her,  and  she 
had  risen  to  embrace  him. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  Why 
are  you  like  that  to-day  ?  " 

She  spoke  in  an  insinuating  tone,  and,  still  with  her 
arms  about  him,  she  caressed  his  head.  In  the  obscurity 
he  saw  the  mysterious  pallor  of  that  face,  the  light  of  those 
eyes.  An  irresistible  trembling  seized  him. 

"  You  are  trembling  !  What  ails  you  ?  What's  the 
matter  ?" 

She  disengaged  herself,  found  a  candle  on  the  table,  and 
lit  it.  She  went  up  to  him,  anxious ;  took  both  his  hands. 

"Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  stammered.  "I  don't  feel  well.  This  is 
one  of  my  bad  days." 


384  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  she  heard  him  complain  of 
vague  physical  suffering,  of  heavy  and  wandering  pains,  of 
painful  twitchings  and  tinglings,  of  vertigos  and  nightmares. 
She  believed  these  sufferings  imaginary ;  she  saw  in  them  the 
effects  of  habitual  melancholy,  the  excesses  of  thought,  and 
she  knew  no  better  remedy  for  them  than  kisses,  laughter, 
and  joyousness. 

"  Where  are  you  suffering?  " 

"  I  could  not  say." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  it  is.  The  music  excites  you  too 
much.  We  must  have  no  more  for  a  week." 

"  No,  we  will  have  no  more." 

"No  more." 

She  went  to  the  piano,  shut  the  cover  over  the  keys, 
locked  it,  and  hid  the  little  key. 

"To-morrow  we  will  resume  our  long  walks;  we  will 
spend  all  morning  on  the  beach.  Shall  we?  And  now 
come  into  the  loggia." 

She  drew  him  toward  her  with  a  tender  gesture. 

"  See  how  beautiful  the  evening  is  !  Smell  how  the  rocks 
embalm  the  air  !  " 

She  breathed  in  the  briny  odor,  trembling  and  clasping 
him  close. 

"  We  have  everything  to  make  us  happy,  and  you — how 
you  will  regret  these  days  when  they  are  gone  !  Time  flies. 
It  will  be  soon  three  months  that  we  are  here." 

"  Do  you  already  think  of  leaving  me  ?  "  he  asked,  un- 
easy, suspicious. 

She  wanted  to  reassure  him. 

"  No,  no,"  she  replied ;  "  not  yet.  But  the  prolongation 
of  my  absence  becomes  difficult  on  account  of  my  mother. 
I  received  only  to-day  a  letter  recalling  me.  You  know 
she  needs  me.  When  I  am  not  at  home  all  goes  wrong." 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  385 

"  Then  you  must  soon  return  to  Rome  ?  " 

"No.  I  shall  have  to  find  another  pretext.  You  know  that 
my  mother  believes  I  am  here  in  company  with  an  old  girl 
friend  of  mine.  My  sister  has  helped  me,  and  still  helps  me, 
in  rendering  this  fiction  probable ;  and,  besides,  my  mother 
knows  that  I  need  sea-baths,  and  that,  last  year,  I  was  ill 
from  not  having  taken  them.  Do  you  remember  ?  I 
spent  the  summer  at  Caronno,  at  my  sister's.  What  a  hor- 
rible summer!  " 

"Well,  what  to  do?" 

"  I  can  certainly  remain  with  you  this  whole  month  of 
August,  perhaps  also  the  first  week  of  September." 

"  And  after  that  ?" 

"  After  that  you  will  permit  me  to  return  to  Rome,  and 
you  will  come  and  rejoin  me  there.  There  we  will  arrange 
concerning  the  future.  I  have  already  an  idea  in  my  head." 

"What?" 

"  I  will  tell  you.  But  just  now  let  us  dine.  Aren't 
you  hungry  ?" 

The  dinner  was  ready.  As  usual,  in  the  loggia,  the  table 
was  spread  in  the  open  air.  They  lit  the  large  lamp. 

"  Look  !  "  she  cried,  when  the  domestic  had  brought  to 
the  table  the  steaming  soup  tureen.  "  That  is  Candia's 
work. ' ' 

She  had  asked  Candia  to  make  a  rustic  soup  for  him, 
after  the  manner  of  the  country — a  savory  mixture,  rich  in 
ginger,  colored,  and  odorous.  She  had  already  tasted  it  sev- 
eral times,  attracted  by  its  odor  in  the  houses  of  the  old 
people,  and  she  had  become  greedy  for  it. 

"  It  is  delicious.     You  will  enjoy  it." 

And  she  filled  a  bowl  full  with  a  gesture  of  childish  greed- 
iness, and  she  swallowed  the  first  spoonful  hastily. 

"  I  have  never  tasted  anything  more  delicious  !  " 
25 


386  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

She  called  Candia  to  praise  her  work. 

11  Candia  !     Candia  !  " 

The  woman  showed  herself  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway, 
laughing : 

"  Does  the  soup  please  you,  signora  ?  " 

"  It  is  perfect." 

"  May  it  change  into  good  blood  for  you  !  " 

And  the  naive  laughter  of  the  enceinte  woman  arose  in 
the  still  air. 

George  took  part  in  this  gayety,  and  showed  it.  The  sud- 
den change  in  his  humor  was  evident.  He  poured  out 
some  wine,  and  drank  it  at  a  gulp.  He  made  an  effort  to 
conquer  his  repugnance  to  eat,  that  repugnance  which, 
latterly,  had  become  so  serious  that  at  times  he  could  not 
bear  the  sight  of  underdone  meat. 

"You  feel  better,  don't  you  ?"  asked  Hippolyte,  lean- 
ing toward  him,  and  moving  her  chair  a  little  to  get  a 
little  closer  to  him. 

"  Yes ;  I  feel  better  now." 

He  drank  again. 

"Look!"  she  cried.  "Look  at  Ortona  in  holiday 
attire!" 

Both  looked  towards  the  distant  city,  crowned  with  fire, 
on  the  hill  that  stretched  along  by  the  shadowy  sea. 
Groups  of  fire  baloons,  like  constellations  of  flame,  were 
rising  slowly  in  the  still  air;  they  seemed  to  multiply 
ceaselessly ;  they  peopled  all  that  part  of  the  sky. 

"My  sister  is  at  Ortona  now.  She's  staying  with  the 
Vallereggia,  relatives  of  ours." 

"  Has  she  written  to  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How  happy  I  should  be  to  see  her !  She  resembles 
you.  doesn't  she  ?  Christine  is  your  favorite." 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  387 

For  a  few  seconds  she  remained  pensive.  Then  she  went 
on : 

"  How  happy  I  should  be  to  see  your  mother  !  I  have 
so  often  thought  of  her  !  " 

And,  after  another  pause,  in  a  tender  voice : 

"  How  she  must  adore  you  !  " 

An  unexpected  emotion  swelled  George's  heart,  and  be- 
fore him  reappeared  the  interior  vision  of  the  house  he  had 
abandoned,  forgotten,  and,  for  a  moment,  all  the  past  sor- 
rows came  back  to  his  mind,  together  with  all  the  painful 
pictures  :  his  mother's  emaciated  face,  her  eyelids  swollen 
and  reddened  by  tears  ;  the  sweet  and  heart-breaking  remem- 
brance of  Christine ;  the  sickly  child  whose  large  head  was 
always  bent  on  a  breast  barren  of  all  but  sighs;  the 
cadaveric  mask  of  the  poor  idiotic  gormand.  And  the  tired 
eyes  of  his  mother  asked  him  again,  as  when  they  separated  : 
"  For  whom  are  you  abandoning  me?  " 

Again  his  soul  stretched  out  toward  the  distant  house, 
suddenly  inclining  before  it  like  a  tree  before  a  squall.  And 
the  secret  resolution — made  in  the  obscurity  of  the  cham- 
ber, between  Hippolyte's  arms — vacillated  beneath  the 
shock  of  an  obscure  warning  when  he  saw  again,  in  mem- 
ory, the  closed  door  behind  which  was  Demetrius' s  bed, 
when  he  saw  again  the  mortuary  chapel  at  the  corner  of 
the  cemetery,  in  the  bluish  and  solemn  shadow  of  the  pro- 
tecting mountain. 

But  Hippolyte  was  speaking,  becoming  loquacious.  As 
at  other  times,  she  imprudently  abandoned  herself  to  her 
domestic  reminiscences.  And  he,  as  at  other  times,  began 
to  listen,  observing  with  uneasiness  certain  vulgar  lines  that 
the  mouth  of  this  woman  fell  into,  during  the  abundance 
and  heat  of  the  discourse,  observing,  as  he  had  done  so  often 
before,  the  particular  gesture  that  was  habitual  to  her  when 


388  THE  TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

she  was  excited,  that  ungraceful  gesture  that  did  not  seem 
to  belong  to  her.     She  was  saying : 

"  You  saw  my  mother  one  day  in  the  street.  Do  you 
remember?  What  a  difference  between  my  mother  and  my 
father  !  My  father  was  always  good  and  affectionate  to  us, 
incapable  of  beating  us  or  severely  scolding  us.  My 
mother  is  violent,  impetuous,  almost  cruel.  Ah,  if  I  told 
you  of  the  martyrdom  of  my  sister,  poor  Adriana !  She 
always  rebelled;  and  her  rebellion  exasperated  my  mother, 
who  used  to  beat  her  until  the  blood  came.  I  knew  enough 
to  disarm  her  by  recognizing  my  fault  and  asking  her  par- 
don. For  all  that,  with  all  her  severity,  she  had  an  im- 
mense love  for  us.  Our  apartment  had  a  window  that  led 
out  on  a  cistern,  and  we,  in  play,  often  used  to  stand  at 
this  window  and  draw  up  the  water  with  a  little  pail.  One 
day  my  mother  went  out,  and  by  chance  we  were  left 
alone.  A  few  minutes  after,  we  were  surprised  to  see  her 
come  in  again,  all  in  tears,  agitated,  upset.  She  took  me  in 
her  arms  and  covered  me  with  kisses,  sobbing  as  if  insane. 
In  the  street  she  had  had  a  presentiment  that  I  had  fallen 
from  that  window." 

George  saw  again,  in  memory,  the  face  of  that  hysterical 
old  woman  in  which  was  exaggerated  all  the  defects  of  her 
daughter's  face :  the  development  of  the  lower  jaw,  the 
length  of  the  chin,  the  width  of  the  nostrils.  He  saw  again 
that  forehead,  like  that  of  a  Fury,  over  which  bristled  the 
gray  hair,  thick  and  dry,  and  those  dark  eyes,  deep-set  beneath 
the  superciliary  ridge,  that  revealed  the  fanatic  ardor  of  a 
bigot  and  the  obstinate  avarice  of  an  insignificant  bourgeoise. 

"  You  see  that  scar  beneath  my  chin  ?  "  went  on  Hippo- 
lyte.  "  My  mother  did  that.  My  sister  and  I  went  to 
school,  and  we  had  very  nice  dresses  that  we  had  to  take 
off  on  our  return.  One  evening,  on  going  home,  I  found 


THE  INVINCIBLE.  39 

on  the  table  a  foot-warmer,  that  I  took  to  rewarm  my  frozen 
hands.      My  mother  said   to  me  :    '  Go  and  undress  ! '    I 
replied:  'I'm  going,'    and  I  continued  to  warm  myself. 
She  repeated  :  '  Go  and  undress  ! '    I  repeated  : '  I'm  going.' 
She  had  in  her  hand  a  large  brush,  and  was  brushing  a 
dress.     I  lingered  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  the  foot- 
warmer.     My  mother  repeated  for  the  third  time :  '  Go  and 
undress!'     And  I  repeated :'  I'm  going.'     Furious,  she 
threw  the  brush  at  me.      It  struck  and  broke   the   foot- 
warmer.     A  splinter  of  the  handle  struck  me  here,  beneath 
the  chin,  and  cut  a  vein.     The  blood  flowed.     My  aunt 
ran   to   me  quickly,  but   my  mother   neither    moved  nor 
looked  at  me.     The  blood  flowed.     By  good  fortune  they 
soon  found  a  surgeon  who  ligated  the  vein.     My  mother 
remained  obstinately  silent.      When  my  father  came  home 
and  saw  me  bandaged  he  asked  what  was  the  matter.     My 
mother,  without  a  word,  looked  at  me  fixedly.     I  replied  : 
'  I   fell  down   the   staircase.'      My  mother  said  nothing. 
As  a  consequence,  I  have  suffered  considerably  from  that 
loss  of  blood.     But  how  Adriana  was  beaten  !— particularly 
on  account  of  Giulio,  my  brother-in-law.    I  shall  never  for- 
get a  terrible  scene." 

She  stopped.  Perhaps  she  had  just  noticed  on  George's 
face  some  equivocal  sign. 

"  I  bore  you,  don't  I,  with  all  this  gossip  ?  " 
"  No,  no.      Continue,  please.      Don't  you  see  I  am  lis- 
tening ?" 

"  We  lived  then  in  Ripetta,  in  the  house  of  a  family  of 
the  name  of  Angelini,  with  whom  we  became  very  friendly. 
Luigi  Sergi,  the  brother  of  my  brother-in-law,  Giulio,  occu- 
pied the  lower  floor  with  his  wife,  Eugenia.  Luigi  was 
a  well-educated  man,  studious,  modest.  Eugenia  was  a 
woman  of  the  worst  kind.  Although  her  husband  made  a 


390  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

good  deal  of  money,  she  was  always  running  him  into  debt, 
and  no  one  knew  in  what  manner  she  spent  all  the  money. 
Gossip  had  it  that  it  went  to  pay  her  lovers.  She  was  very 
homely,  so  the  story  was  generally  believed.  My  sister  had 
become  attached  to  Eugenia,  I  do  not  know  how,  and  she 
was  forever  going  downstairs,  on  the  pretext  of  taking 
lessons  in  French  from  Luigi.  That  displeased  my  mother, 
rendered  suspicious  by  Angelina's  sisters,  old  maids,  who 
pretended  to  have  friendship  for  the  Sergis,  but  who,  in 
reality,  deserted  them  like  buzzurri,  and  were  happy  to  be 
able  to  slander  them.  'Allowing  Adriana  to  visit  the  house 
of  an  abandoned  woman  ! '  Hard  words  increased.  But 
Eugenia  always  favored  Giulio's  and  Adriana's  amours. 
Giulio  often  came  to  Rome  from  Milan  on  business.  And, 
one  day,  just  as  he  was  coming,  my  sister  made  great  haste  to 
go  downstairs.  My  mother  forbade  her  to  move.  My  sister 
insisted.  In  the  dispute  my  mother  raised  her  hand.  They 
seized  each  other  by  the  hair.  My  sister  went  so  far  as  to 
bite  her  arms,  and  escaped  by  the  staircase.  But  as  she 
knocked  at  the  Sergi  door  my  mother  fell  on  her,  and  in 
the  open  landing  place  there  was  such  a  scene  of  violence 
as  I  shall  never  forget.  Adriana  was  brought  back  home 
almost  dead.  She  fell  ill  and  had  convulsions.  My 
mother,  repentant,  surrounded  her  with  care,  became  more 
gentle  than  she  ever  was  before.  A  few  days  later,  even 
before  she  was  entirely  cured,  Adriana  eloped  with  Giulio. 
But  that,  I  believe,  I  have  already  told  you." 

And  after  all  this  innocent  gossip,  in  which  she  forgot 
herself,  without  suspecting  the  effect  produced  on  her  lover 
by  her  commonplace  recollections,  she  again  took  to  her 
interrupted  supper. 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence;  then  she  added,  smil- 
ing: 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  39! 

"  You  see  what  a  terrible  woman  my  mother  is  ?  You 
don't  know,  and  you  can  never  know,  how  much  she  has 
tortured  me,  when  the  struggle  broke  out  against  him. 
My  God  !  What  torture  ! ' ' 

She  remained  thoughtful  for  a  few  moments. 

George  fixed  upon  the  imprudent  woman  a  look  charged 
with  hate  and  jealousy,  suffering  in  that  moment  all  his 
sufferings  of  the  past  two  years.  With  the  fragments  with 
which  she  had  had  the  imprudence  to  furnish  him,  he  recon- 
structed Hippolyte's  life  in  her  own  circle,  not  without 
attributing  to  it  the  meanest  vulgarities,  not  without  lower- 
ing it  to  the  most  dishonorable  contacts.  If  the  marriage 
of  the  sister  took  place  under  the  auspices  of  a  nympho- 
maniac, under  what  conditions,  as  a  consequence  of  what 
circumstances,  was  that  of  Hippolyte  concluded  then  ?  In 
what  world  had  her  early  years  been  passed  ?  By  what 
intrigues  had  she  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  odious  man 
whose  name  she  bore  ?  And  he  represented  to  himself  the 
hidden  and  sordid  life  in  certain  little  middle-class  homes 
of  old  Rome — homes  that  exhaled  at  the  same  time  a  stench 
of  cooking  and  the  musty  smell  of  a  sacristy,  that  fer- 
mented with  the  double  corruption  of  the  family  and  the 
church.  The  prediction  of  Alphonso  Exili  returned  to  his 
memory :  "  Do  you  know  who  your  probable  successor  is  ? 
It  is  Monti,  the  mercante  di campagna.  Monti  has  money." 
It  appeared  probable  to  him  that  Hippolyte  would  end  in 
that  way,  by  lucrative  amours,  and  that  she  would  have  the 
tacit  consent  of  her  people,  gradually  allured  by  an  easier 
existence,  disembarrassed  of  domestic  cares,  surrounded 
once  more  by  comforts  far  greater  than  those  which  the  mat- 
rimonial state  of  their  daughter  had  procured  for  them. 
"  Could  not  I  myself  make  an  offer  like  that,  propose  that 
position  frankly  to  Hippolyte  ?  "  She  said,  the  other  day, 


392  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

that  she  had  something  in  view  for  the  winter,  for  the 
future.  Very  well  !  Could  we  not  arrange  it  ?  I  am  sure 
that,  after  having  seriously  considered  the  offer,  and  the 
stability  of  the  position,  that  sour  old  woman  would  not 
have  much  repugnance  in  accepting  me  as  a  substitute  for 
the  fugitive  son-in-law.  Perhaps  we  should  even  end  by 
all  becoming  a  happy  family  for  the  end  of  our  days  ?" 
The  sarcasm  wrenched  his  heart  with  intolerable  cruelty. 
Nervously  he  poured  out  some  more  wine  and  drank. 

"  Why  are  you  drinking  so  much  this  evening  ?  "  asked 
Hippolyte,  looking  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  thirsty.     You  are  not  drinking,  are  you  ?  " 

Hippolyte's  glass  was  empty. 

"  Drink  !  "  said  George,  making  a  gesture  as  if  about  to 
fill  her  glass. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  prefer  water,  as  usual.  No 
wine  pleases  me,  except  champagne.  Do  you  remember, 
at  Albano,  the  astonishment  of  that  good  Pancrace  when 
the  cork  would  not  pop,  and  he  had  to  use  a  corkscrew  ?  ' ' 

"  There  must  be  still  several  bottles  below,  in  the  case. 
I  will  go  and  find  them." 

And  George  rose  quickly. 

"  No,  no  !     Not  this  evening  !  " 

She  wanted  to  retain  him.  But,  as  he  was  preparing  to 
descend,  "  I  will  go,  too,"  she  said. 

Gayly,  lightly,  she  descended  with  him  into  a  room  on 
the  ground  floor  that  served  as  a  store-room. 

Candia  hastened  to  them  with  a  lamp.  They  searched  at 
the  bottom  of  the  case  and  recovered  two  bottles  with  sil- 
vered necks,  the  last. 

"  Here  they  are  !  "  exclaimed  Hippolyte,  already  excited 
•ensually.  "  Here  they  are.  Two  more." 

She  lifted  them  up,  brilliant,  toward  the  lamp. 


THE  INVINCIBLE.  393 

"Let  us  go." 

She  ran  out  laughing,  ascended  the  stairs,  placed  the 
bottles  pn  the  table.  For  a  few  seconds  she  sat  as  if  be- 
wildered, panting  somewhat.  Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Look  at  Ortona!" 

She  stretched  out  her  hand  toward  the  distant  town,  beau- 
tiful in  its  gala  dress,  and  which  seemed  to  be  wafting  its 
joy  as  far  as  where  she  sat.  A  crimson  glare  was  spread 
over  the  top  of  the  hill  as  over  an  active  crater;  and  from 
the  lighted  area  kept  rising  innumerable  balloons  in  the 
deep  azure,  drifting  in  vast  circles,  presenting  a  picture 
of  an  immense  illuminated  dome  reflected  by  the  sea. 

On  the  table,  rich  in  flowers,  fruits,  and  sweetmeats,  the 
night-moths  were  whirling.  The  froth  from  the  generous 
wine  splashed  over  the  rush  mats. 

"I  drink  to  our  happiness  !  "  she  said,  lifting  her  glass 
toward  her  lover. 

"  I  drink  to  our  peace  !  "  he  said,  holding  out  his  own. 

The  glasses  clashed  together  so  roughly  that  both  were 
broken.  The  golden  wine  was  spilled  on  the  table,  inun- 
dated a  pile  of  fine,  succulent  peaches. 

"A  good  omen!  A  good  omen!"  cried  Hippolyte, 
more  merry  at  this  sprinkling  than  if  she  had  drunk  deeply. 

And  she  placed  her  hand  on  the  wet  fruit  piled  before 
her.  They  were  magnificent  peaches,  of  a  deep  crimson  on 
one  side  as  if  the  rising  sun  had  painted  them  on  seeing 
them  hanging  ripe  on  the  branch.  That  strange  dew  seemed 
to  revivify  them. 

"  What  a  marvel  !  "  she  said,  taking  the  most  luxurious 
one. 

Without  removing  the  skin,  she  bit  it  greedily.  The 
juice  ran  from  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  yellow  as  liquid 
honey. 


394  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   DEATH. 

"  You  bite  now  !  " 

She  held  the  streaming  peach  out  to  her  lover,  with  the 
same  gesture  she  had  offered  him  the  rest  of  the  bread  be- 
neath the  oak  in  the  twilight  of  the  first  day. 

That  recollection  awoke  in  George's  memory;  and  he 
felt  a  desire  to  speak  of  it. 

"FJ.o  you  remember,"  he  said,  "do  you  remember  the 
first  evening,  when  you  bit  the  bread  fresh  from  the  oven, 
and  you  gave  it  me  all  warm  and  humid  ?  Do  you  remem- 
ber ?  How  good  it  seemed  to  me  !  " 

"  I  remember  everything.  Can  I  forget  the  slightest 
incident  of  that  day  ?  " 

She  saw  again,  in  imagination,  the  path  all  strewn  with 
furze,  the  fresh  and  delicate  homage  shed  on  her  path. 
For  a  few  moments  she  remained  silent,  absorbed  by  that 
vision  of  poesy. 

"  The  furze  !  "  she  murmured,  with  an  unexpected  smile 
of  regret. 

Then  she  added : 

"  Do  you  remember  ?  The  entire  hill  was  clothed  in 
yellow,  and  the  perfume  gave  one  vertigo." 

"  Drink  !  "  said  George,  pouring  the  sparkling  wine  into 
the  new  glasses. 

"  I  drink  to  the  coming  springtime  of  our  love  !  "  said 
Hippolyte. 

And  she  drank  to  the  last  drop. 

George  immediately  refilled  her  empty  glass. 

She  put  her  fingers  into  a  box  of  loitkoumes,  asking : 

"  Will  you  have  amber  or  pink  ?  " 

They  were  Oriental  confections  sent  to  them  by  Adolpho 
Astorgi — a  sort  of  elastic  paste  colored  amber  and  pink, 
and  powdered  with  pistache,  and  so  perfumed  that  they  gave 
to  the  mouth  the  illusion  of  a  fleshy  flower  rich  in  honey. 


THE    INVINCIBLE.  395 

"  Who  knows  where  the  Don  Juan  is  now  ?  "  said  George, 
on  receiving  the  sweetmeat  from  Hippolyte's  fingers,  white 
with  sugar. 

And  over  his  soul  passed  the  nostalgia  of  the  distant 
isles,  the  isles  embalmed  by  the  mastic,  and  which  at  the 
very  moment,  perhaps,  were  sending  all  their  nocturnal 
delights  on  the  breeze  to  swell  the  great  sail. 

Hippolyte  detected  the  note  of  regret  in  George's  words  : 

"  So  you  prefer  to  be  on  board,  away  over  there,  with 
your  friend,  rather  than  here  alone  with  me  ?  "  she  said. 

"Neither  here  nor  there.  Somewhere  else!"  he  re- 
plied smiling,  in  a  bantering  tone. 

And  he  rose  to  offer  his  lips  to  his  companion. 

She  gave  him  a  long  kiss,  with  her  mouth  all  sticky  and 
covered  with  the  sugar  of  the  still  unswallowed  bon-bon,  while 
the  moths  whirled  round  about  them. 

"You  do  not  drink,"  he  said  after  the  kiss,  his  voice 
slightly  changed. 

She  emptied  the  glass  at  a  draught. 

"  It  is  almost  warm,"  said  she,  as  she  laid  it  down. 
"  Do  you  remember  the  iced  champagne  at  Danieli's  in 
Venice  ?  Oh,  how  I  love  to  see  it  flow  slowly,  slowly,  in 
thick  flakes!" 

When  she  spoke  of  the  things  that  pleased  her  or  of  the 
caresses  that  she  preferred,  she  had  in  her  voice  a  singular 
delicacy;  to  modulate  the  syllables,  her  lips  moved  in  a 
manner  that  expressed  profound  sensuality.  Now,  in  every 
one  of  these  words,  in  each  of  these  movements,  George 
found  a  motif  of  the  keenest  suffering.  That  sensuality 
which  he  had  himself  aroused  in  her  he  believed  had 
now  come  to  the  point  where  desire,  untiring  and  tyran- 
nical, could  no  longer  support  any  bridle  and  claimed 
immediate  satisfaction.  Hippolyte  appeared  to  him  like 


396  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

a  woman  irresistibly  addicted  to  pleasure  in  all  its  forms, 
no  matter  what  degradation  it  might  cost  her.  When 
he  had  gone  away,  or  when  she  had  tired  of  his  "  love," 
she  would  accept  the  most  generous  and  most  practical  offer. 
Perhaps  she  would  even  succeed  in  raising  the  price  very 
high.  Where,  in  fact,  could  a  rarer  instrument  of  voluptu- 
ousness be  found  ?  She  possessed  at  present  every  seduc- 
tion and  every  science ;  she  had  that  beauty  which  strikes  men 
at  sight,  which  disturbs  them,  which  awakens  in  their  blood 
implacable  covetousness  ;  she  had  feline  elegance  of  person, 
refined  taste  in  dress,  exquisite  art  in  colors  and  styles  that 
harmonized  with  her  grace ;  she  had  learned  to  modulate,  in 
a  voice  suave  and  warm  as  the  velvet  of  her  eyes,  the  slow 
syllables  that  evoked  dreams  and  lulled  pain;  she  bore 
in  the  depths  of  her  being  a  secret  malady  that  seemed 
at  times  to  mysteriously  illumine  her  sensibility;  she  had, 
by  turns,  the  languors  of  the  malady  and  the  vehemence  of 
health ;  and,  finally,  she  was  barren.  United  in  her,  then, 
were  the  sovereign  virtues  that  destine  a  woman  to  dominate 
the  world  by  the  scourge  of  her  impure  beauty.  Passion 
had  refined  and  complicated  these  virtues.  She  was  now  at 
the  zenith  of  her  power.  If,  all  at  once,  she  found  herself 
free  and  untrammelled,  what  road  would  she  choose  in  life  ? 
George  had  no  longer  the  slightest  doubt ;  he  knew  what  that 
qhoice  would  be.  He  was  confirmed  in  the  certitude  that 
his  influence  over  her  was  bounded  by  the  senses  and  by 
certain  factitious  attitudes  of  her  mind.  The  plebeian  foun- 
dation had  persisted,  impenetrable  in  its  thickness.  He 
was  convinced  that  this  plebeian  foundation  would  permit 
her  to  adapt  herself  without  compunction  to  the  contact  of 
a  lover  who  would  not  be  distinguished  by  any  superior 
qualities,  physical  or  moral  :  in  short,  a  commonplace 
lover.  And,  while  he  filled  her  empty  glass  again  with  the 


THE  INVINCIBLE.  397 

wine  she  preferred,  the  wine  that  one  uses  to  enliven  secret 
suppers,  to  animate  little  modern  orgies  behind  closed  doors, 
he  attributed,  in  imagination,  attitudes  of  outrageous  im- 
modesty to  "  the  pale  and  voracious  Roman,  incomparable 
in  the  art  of  tiring  the  loins  of  men." 

"  How  your  hand  trembles,"  observed  Hippolyte,  looking 
at  it. 

"  It's  true,"  he  said,  with  a  convulsion  that  simulated 
gayety.  "  I  think  I've  already  had  too  much.  Why  don't 
you  drink  ?  That's  not  fair." 

She  laughed,  and  drank  for  the  third  time,  filled  with  a 
childish  joy  at  the  thought  of  getting  tipsy,  at  feeling  her 
intelligence  become  gradually  obscured.  The  fumes  of 
the  wine  were  already  operating  in  her.  The  hysterical 
demon  began  to  move  her. 

"  See  how  sunburnt  my  arms  are  !  "  she  cried,  drawing 
her  large  sleeves  up  to  the  elbows.  "Just  look  at  my 
wrists  ! ' ' 

Although  she  was  a  carnation  brunette,  of  a  warm,  dull- 
gold  color,  the  skin  at  her  wrists  was  extremely  transparent 
and  of  a  strange  pallor.  The  sun  had  burnt  the  parts  ex- 
posed ;  but  on  the  under  side  the  wrists  had  remained  pale. 
And  on  that  fine  skin,  through  that  pallor,  the  veins  shone 
through,  subtle,  and  yet  very  visible,  of  an  intense  azure 
slightly  approaching  a  violet.  George  had  often  repeated 
the  words  of  Cleopatra  to  the  messenger  from  Italy  :  "  Here 
are  my  bluest  veins  to  kiss." 

Hippolyte  held  out  her  wrists  to  him  and  said  : 

"Kiss  them!" 

He  seized  one,  and  made  a  motion  with  his  knife  as  if 
about  to  cut  it  off . 

She  dared  him  to. 

"  Cut,  if  you  want  to.     I  won't  move." 


398  THE    TRIUMPH   OF    DEATH. 

During  the  gesture  he  looked  fixedly  at  the  delicate 
blue  network  on  her  skin,  so  clearly  defined  that  it  seemed 
to  belong  to  another  body,  to  the  body  of  a  blond  woman. 
And  that  singularity  attracted  him,  tempted  him  aesthet- 
ically by  the  suggestion  of  a  tragic  image  of  beauty. 

"  It  is  your  vulnerable  spot,"  he  said  with  a  smile.  "  It 
is  a  sure  indication.  You  will  die  from  cut  veins.  Give 
me  the  other  hand." 

He  placed  the  two  wrists  together,  and  again  made  a  ges- 
ture as  to  cut  them  off  with  a  single  blow.  The  complete 
image  arose  in  his  imagination.  On  the  marble  threshold  of 
a  door,  full  of  shadow  and  expectation,  the  woman  who  was 
about  to  die  appeared,  extending  her  naked  anus ;  and  at 
the  extremities  of  the  arms,  from  the  slashed  veins,  spouted 
and  palpitated  two  red  fountains.  And,  between  these  red 
fountains,  the  face  slowly  assumed  a  supernatural  pallor,  the 
cavities  of  the  eyes  were  filled  with  an  infinite  mystery,  the 
phantom  of  an  inexpressible  word  was  outlined  on  the 
closed  mouth.  All  at  once  the  double  jet  ceased  to  flow. 
The  exsanguined  body  fell  backwards  like  a  mass,  in  the 
shadow. 

"  Tell  me  your  dream  !  "  begged  Hippolyte,  seeing  him 
absorbed. 

He  described  the  image  to  her. 

"  Very  beautiful,"  said  she,  with  admiration,  as  if  before 
an  engraving. 

And  she  lit  a  cigarette.  She  puffed  a  wave  of  smoke 
from  between  her  lips  against  the  lamp  around  which  the 
night-moths  were  whirling.  She  watched  for  a  moment 
the  agitation  of  the  little  variegated  wings  between  the 
moving  veils  of  the  cloud.  Then  she  turned  toward  Ortona, 
which  scintillated  with  fire.  She  arose  and  raised  her  eyes 
to  the  stars. 


THE    INVINCIBLE.  399 

"  How  warm  the  night  is  !  "  she  said,  breathing  heavily. 
"  Aren't  you  warm  too  ?  " 

She  threw  away  her  cigarette.  Again  she  uncovered  her 
arms.  She  came  close  to  him;  she  suddenly  threw  his 
head  back ;  she  enveloped  him  in  a  long  caress ;  her  mouth 
glided  over  all  his  face,  languishing  and  ardent,  in  a  mul- 
tiple kiss.  Feline-like,  she  clung  to  him,  entwined  him, 
and  with  an  almost  inexplicable  movement,  agile  and  fur- 
tive, she  seated  herself  on  his  knees,  intoxicating  him  with 
the  perfume  of  her  skin,  that  perfume,  at  once  irritating  and 
delicious,  that  always  had  the  same  exhilarating  effect  on 
him  as  the  scent  of  the  tuberose. 

Every  fibre  of  his  being  trembled,  like  a  few  moments 
before  when  she  had  clasped  him  ardently  in  the  room 
filled  with  the  last  shadows  of  twilight.  She  noticed  his 
emotion  and  it  aroused  desire  in  her.  Her  hands  became 
bold. 

"No,  no;  let  me  be!"  he  stammered,  repulsing  her. 
"We  shall  be  seen." 

She  tore  herself  away.  She  tottered  slightly,  and  ap- 
peared really  influenced  by  the  wine.  It  seemed  as  though 
a  mist,  passing  over  her  eyes  and  into  her  brain,  obscured 
her  sight  and  thought.  She  put  her  hands  to  her  forehead 
and  burning  cheeks. 

"  How  warm  it  is  !  "  she  sighed.  "  I  wish  I  had  nothing 
on." 

Possessed  from  now  on  by  that  one  fixed  idea,  George 
repeated  to  himself  :  "  Must  I  die  alone  ?  "  As  the  fatal 
hour  drew  nearer,  the  deed  of  violence  seemed  more  neces- 
sary. Behind  him,  in  the  shadow  in  the  bedroom,  he 
heard  the  ticktack  of  the  clock ;  he  heard  the  rhythmic 
blows  of  a  flax-brake  on  a  distant  field.  These  two  sounds, 
cadenced  and  dissimilar,  intensified  in  him  the  sensation 


400  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

of  the  flight  of  time,  gave  him  a  sort  of  anxious  ter- 
ror. 

"Look  at  Ortona  aflame!"  cried  Hippolyte.  "What 
a  number  of  rockets  ! ' ' 

The  festive  city  illuminated  the  sky.  Innumerable  sky- 
rockets, parting  from  a  central  point,  spread  out  in  the  sky 
like  a  broad  golden  fan,  that  slowly,  from  top  to  bottom, 
dissolved  into  a  shower  of  scattered  sparks,  and,  suddenly, 
in  the  midst  of  the  golden  rain,  a  new  fan  was  formed,  entire 
and  splendid,  to  dissolve  again  and  reform  again,  while 
the  waters  reflected  the  changing  picture.  One  heard  a 
low  crepitation,  like  a  distant  fusilade,  interspersed  with 
deeper  reports  that  followed  the  explosions  of  multi-colored 
bombs  in  the  heights  of  the  sky.  And  at  every  report  the 
city,  the  port,  the  great  stretched-out  mole,  appeared  in  a 
different  light,  fantastically  transfigured. 

Upright  against  the  parapet,  Hippolyte  admired  the 
spectacle,  and  saluted  the  brighter  splendors  with  exclama- 
tions of  delight.  From  time  to  time  it  spread  over  her 
person  like  the  reflection  of  a  fire. 

"  She  is  overexcited,  a  little  inebriated,  ready  for  any 
madness,"  thought  George  as  he  watched  her.  "  I  could 
suggest  a  walk,  which  she  has  often  wanted  to  take  :  to  go 
through  one  of  the  tunnels  by  the  light  of  a  torch.  I  would 
go  down  to  the  Trabocco  to  get  a  torch.  She  could  wait 
for  me  at  the  end  of  the  bridge.  I  would  lead  her  then  to 
the  tunnel  by  a  path  that  I  know.  I  would  manage  that  the 
train  should  come  upon  us  while  we  were  in  the  tunnel — 
fool  hardiness,  accident." 

The  idea  seemed  to  him  easy  of  realization:  it  had 
presented  itself  to  his  imagination  with  extraordinary  clear- 
ness, as  if  it  had  formed  an  integral  part  of  his  conscious- 
ness since  that  first  day  when,  before  the  shining  rails,  he 


THE   INVINCIBLE. 


received  the  first  confused  glimmer  from  them.  "  She  must 
die,  too."  His  resolution  became  strengthened,  immutable. 
He  heard  behind  him  the  ticking  of  the  clock.  He  felt  a 
feeling  of  intense  anxiety  he  could  not  master.  It  was  get- 
ting late.  Perhaps  there  was  scarcely  time  for  them  to  go 
down.  He  must  act  without  delay,  assure  himself  imme- 
diately as  to  the  precise  time  indicated  by  the  clock.  But 
it  seemed  impossible  for  him  to  rise  from  his  chair;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  if  he  spoke  to  her  carelessly,  his  speech 
would  fail  him. 

He  started  to  his  feet  as  he  heard  in  the  distance  the 
well-known  rumbling.  Too  late  !  And  his  heart  beat  so 
fast  that  he  believed  he  would  die  of  anguish  as  he  heard 
the  rumbling  and  whistling  draw  nearer. 

Hippolyte  turned. 

"  The  train  !  "  she  said.     "  Come  and  see  !  " 

He  went  ;  and  she  encircled  his  neck  with  her  bare  arm, 
leaning  on  his  shoulder. 

"  It  is  entering  the  tunnel,"  she  said  again,  prompted  by 
the  difference  in  sound. 

In  George's  ears  the  rumbling  increased  in  a  frightful 
manner.  He  saw,  as  in  a  hallucination,  his  mistress  and 
himself  beneath  the  dark  roof,  the  rapid  approach  of  the 
headlight  in  the  dark,  the  short  struggle  on  the  rails,  the 
simultaneous  fall,  the  bodies  crushed  by  the  horrible  vio- 
lence ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  he  felt  the  contact  of  the 
supple  woman,  caressing,  always  triumphant.  And,  added 
to  the  physical  horror  of  this  barbarous  destruction,  he  felt 
an  exasperated  rancor  against  her  who  seemed  to  escape 
his  hate. 

Both   leaning   against   the   parapet,    they   watched    the 
deafening  train,  rapid  and  sinister,  that  shook  the  house  to 
its  very  foundations,  and  even  imparted  the  shock  to  them. 
26 


402  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"At  night,"  said  Hippolyte,  pressing  still  closer  to 
him,  "  I'm  afraid  when  the  train  shakes  the  house  as 
it  passes.  Aren't  you,  too  ?  I  have  often  felt  you 
tremble." 

He  did  not  hear  her.  An  immense  tumult  stirred  his 
whole  being;  it  was  the  rudest  and  most  obscure  agitation 
that  his  soul  had  ever  experienced.  Incoherent  thoughts  and 
images  whirled  in  his  brain,  and  his  heart  writhed  beneath 
a  thousand  cruel  punctures.  But  one  fixed  image  domi- 
nated all  the  others,  invaded  the  centre  of  his  soul.  What 
was  he  doing  at  this  hour  five  years  before  ?  He  was 
holding  vigil  over  a  cadaver ;  he  was  contemplating  a  face 
hidden  beneath  a  black  veil,  a  long,  pale  hand 

Hippolyte's  restless  hands  touched  him,  crept  into  his 
hair,  tickled  his  neck.  On  his  neck,  on  his  ear,  he  felt  a 
warm  mouth.  With  an  instinctive  motion  that  he  could  not 
repress,  he  drew  aside,  walked  away.  She  laughed  that  sin- 
gular laugh,  ironical  and  immodest,  which  burst  out  and 
resounded  from  between  her  teeth  whenever  her  lover  re- 
fused himself  to  her.  And  under  this  obsession  he  heard 
once  more  the  slow  and  limpid  syllables  :  "  For  fear  of  my 
kisses  !  " 

A  low  crepitation,  mingled  with  the  distinct  reports,  still 
came  from  the  festive  town.  The  fireworks  were  beginning 
again. 

Hippolyte  turned  toward  the  spectacle. 

"  Look  I     One  would  think  that  Ortona  were  on  fire.' 

A  vast  crimson  glare  lit  up  the  heavens  and  was  reflected 
in  the  waters,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  light  the  profile  of 
the  flaming  town  was  outlined.  The  rockets  burst  overhead 
like  splendid  large  roses. 

"  Shall  I  live  through  this  night  ?  Shall  I  recommence 
to  live  to-morrow  ?  And  how  long  ?  A  disgust,  bitter  as 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  4°3 

a  nausea,  an  almost  savage  hate,  arose  from  his  heart  at 
the  thought  that  the  following  night  he  would  again  have 
that  woman  near  him  on  the  same  pillow,  that  he  would 
again  hear  the  breathing  of  the  sleeping  woman,  that  he 
would  again  smell  the  odor  and  feel  the  contact  of  that 
heated  skin,  and  then  that  the  day  would  break  again  and 
pass  by  in  the  usual  idleness,  amidst  the  torture  of  perpetual 
alternatives. 

A  burst  of  light  struck  him,  attracted  his  gaze  to  the 
spectacle  outside.  A  vast  pink  lunary  light  blossomed 
over  the  festive  town,  and  yonder,  on  the  shore,  illuminated 
the  succession  of  little  indented  bays  and  jutting  points 
as  far  as  the  sight  could  reach.  Cape  Moro,  the  Nic- 
chiola,  the  Trabocco,  the  rocks,  near  or  distant,  as  far  as 
the  Vasto  Point,  appeared  a  few  seconds  in  the  immense 
irradiation. 

"  The  promontory  !  "  suggested  a  secret  voice  to  George 
suddenly,  while  his  gaze  was  carried  to  the  heights  crowned 
by  the  twisted  olive-trees. 

The  white  light  faded  away.  The  distant  town  became 
silent,  still  outlined  against  the  shadows  by  its  illumina- 
tions. In  the  silence,  George  perceived  again  the  oscilla- 
tions of  the  pendulum  and  the  rhythmic  beats  of  the  flax 
brake.  But  now  he  was  master  of  his  anguish;  he  felt 
himself  stronger  and  his  mind  clearer. 

"  Shall  we  go  out  a  little  ?"  he  asked  Hippolyte,  in  a 
slightly  changed  voice.  "  We'll  go  to  some  spot  in  the 
open;  we'll  stretch  ourselves  out  on  the  grass,  and  breath 
in  the  fresh  air.  Look  !  The  night  is  almost  as  light  as  if 
it  were  full  moon." 

"  No,  no;  let  us  stay  here  !  "  she  answered  nonchalantly. 

"  It's  not  late.  Are  you  sleepy  already  ?  I  cannot  go 
to  bed  too  early,  you  know :  I  do  not  sleep,  I  suffer.  1 


404  THE    TRIUMPH    OF   DEATH. 

would  gladly  take  a  little  walk.  Come,  do  not  be  so  lazy  ! 
You  could  come  just  as  you  are." 

"  No,  no;  let  us  stay  here." 

And,  once  more,  she  passed  her  bare  arms  around  his 
neck,  languishing,  seized  by  desire. 

"  Let  us  stay  here.  Come  indoors;  let  us  lie  down  a 
little.  Come!" 

She  tried  to  coax  him,  to  entice  him,  seized  by  desire 
that  became  all  the  fiercer  as  she  noticed  George's  resist- 
ance. She  was  all  ardor,  and  her  beauty  was  at  its  best, 
illuminated  as  by  a  torch.  Her  long,  serpentine  body 
trembled  through  her  thin  wrapper.  Her  large  dark  eyes 
shed  the  fascinating  charm  of  the  supreme  hours  of  passion. 
She  was  the  sovereign  Sensualism  repeating :  "  I  am  forever 
the  unconquered.  I  am  stronger  than  your  thought.  The 
odor  of  my  skin  has  the  power  to  dissolve  a  world  in  you." 

"  No,  no;  I  do  not  want  to,"  declared  George,  seizing 
her  wrists  with  an  almost  brutal  violence  that  he  could  not 
moderate. 

"Ah!  you  don't  want  to?"  she  echoed  mockingly, 
amused  by  the  struggle,,  sure  of  conquering,  incapable  of 
giving  way  in  her  caprice. 

He  regretted  his  roughness.  To  draw  her  into  the  snare, 
he  must  be  mild  and  coaxing,  must  simulate  ardor  and  ten- 
derness. After  that,  he  would  certainly  induce  her  to  take 
the  nocturnal  walk — the  last  walk.  But,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  also  felt  the  absolute  necessity  of  not  losing  that  nervous 
momentary  energy  that  was  indispensable  for  the  approach- 
ing action. 

"  Ah  !  So  you  don't  want  to  ?  "  she  repeated,  throwing 
her  bare  arms  about  him,  gazing  up  at  him,  looking  into 
the  depths  of  his  eyes  with  a  species  of  repressed  frenzy. 

George  permitted  himself  to  be  led  into  the  room. 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  405 

Then  all  the  Enemy's  feline  lasciviousness  broke  loose 
over  him  whom  she  believed  already  vanquished.  She  let 
down  her  hair,  loosened  her  dress,  permitted  her  natural 
perfume  to  be  exhaled  like  a  shrub  of  odoriferous  flowers. 
She  seemed  to  realize  that  she  must  disarm  this  man,  that 
she  must  enervate  him,  and  that  she  must  crush  him  to  pre- 
vent him  from  becoming  dangerous. 

George  felt  he  was  lost.  Once  more  the  Enemy  had 
asserted  her  superiority. 

Suddenly  she  was  seized  with  laughter,  nervous,  frantic, 
ungovernable,  lugubrious  as  the  laughter  of  the  insane. 

Frightened,  he  let  her  go.  He  looked  at  her  with  mani- 
fest horror,  thinking,  "  Is  this  madness  ?  " 

She  laughed,  laughed,  laughed,  writhing,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  biting  her  fingers,  holding  her  sides ;  she 
laughed,  laughed  in  spite  of  herself,  shaken  by  long,  sono- 
rous hiccoughs. 

At  intervals,  she  stopped  fora  second ;  then  recommenced 
with  renewed  violence.  And  nothing  was  more  lugubrious 
than  these  mad  laughs  in  the  silence  of  the  magnificent 
night. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  !  Don't  be  afraid  !  "  she  said,  during 
the  pauses,  at  the  sight  of  her  perplexed  and  frightened 
lover.  "  I  am  calmer  now.  Go  out,  please.  Please  go 
out!" 

He  went  back  on  the  loggia,  as  if  in  a  dream.  Never- 
theless, his  brain  retained  a  strange  lucidity  and  strange 
wakefulness.  All  his  acts,  all  his  perceptions  had  for  him 
the  unreality  of  a  dream,  and  assumed  at  the  same  time  a 
signification  as  profound  as  that  of  an  allegory.  He  still 
heard  behind  him  the  ill-repressed  laughter;  he  retained 
still  in  his  fingers  the  sensation  of  the  impure  thing.  He 
saw  above  and  around  him  the  beauty  of  the  summer  even- 


406  THE    TRIUMPH    OF  DEATHS 

mg.  He  knew  what  was  on  the  point  of  being  accom- 
plished. 

The  laughs  ceased.  Again,  in  the  silence,  he  perceived 
the  vibrations  of  the  pendulum  and  the  beats  of  the  flax 
brake  on  the  distant  area.  A  groan  coming  from  the 
house  of  the  old  people  made  him  shudder :  it  was  the  pain 
of  her  who  was  now  in  childbirth. 

"  All  must  be  accomplished  !  "  he  thought. 

And,  turning,  he  crossed  the  threshold  with  a  firm 
step. 

Hippolyte  lay  upon  the  sofa,  recomposed,  pale,  her  eyes 
half-closed.  At  the  approach  of  her  lover,  she  smiled. 

"  Come,  sit  down  !  "  she  murmured,  with  a  vague  gesture. 

He  bent  over  her,  and  saw  tears  between  her  eyelashes. 

"  Are  you  suffering  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  feel  a  slight  suffocation.  I  have  a  weight  here,  as 
if  a  ball  were  rising  and  falling." 

She  pointed  to  the  centre  of  her  chest.  He  said  :  "  It  is 
suffocating  in  this  room.  Make  an  effort,  and  get  up.  Let 
us  go  out.  The  air  will  do  you  good.  Come  !  " 

He  rose,  and  held  out  his  hands.  She  gave  him  hers,  and 
let  him  raise  her.  When  on  her  feet,  she  shook  her  head  to 
throw  back  her  hair,  which  was  still  untied.  Then  she 
bent  down  to  search  for  her  lost  hairpins. 

"Where  can  they  be  ?" 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  " 

"  My  hairpins." 

"  Let  them  be  !    You'll  find  them  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  need  them  to  fasten  my  hair. ' ' 

"  Leave  your  hair  as  it  is.     It  pleases  me  that  way." 

She  smiled.  They  went  out  into  the  loggia.  She  raised 
her  face  towards  the  stars  and  breathed  the  perfume  of  the 
summer  night. 


THE  INVINCIBLE.  407 

"  You  see  how  beautiful  the  night  is  !  "  said  George,  in 
a  hoarse  yet  gentle  voice. 

"They  are  beating  the  flax,"  said  Hippolyte,  listening 
attentively  to  the  continuous  rhythm. 

"  Let  us  go  down,"  said  George.  "  Let  us  walk  a  little. 
Let  us  go  as  fai  as  the  olive-trees,  yonder." 

He  seemed  to  hang  on  Hippolyte's  lips. 

"  No,  no.  Let  us  remain  here.  You  see  in  what  a  state 
lam!" 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  Who  will  see  you  ?  We. 
shall  not  meet  a  living  soul  at  this  hour.  Come  as  you 
are.  I'd  go  without  my  hat.  The  country  is  almost  like 
a  garden  for  us.  Let  us  go  down." 

She  hesitated  a  few  seconds.  But  she,  too,  felt  the  need 
of  fresh  air,  of  getting  away  from  this  house  that  still  seemed 
to  resound  with  the  echo  of  her  horrible  laughs. 

"  Let  us  go  down,"  she  finally  consented. 

At  these  words,  George  felt  as  if  his  heart  had  ceased  to 
beat. 

With  an  instinctive  movement  he  approached  the  thresh- 
old of  the  illuminated  room.  He  cast  toward  the  interior 
a  look  of  anguish,  a  look  of  farewell.  A  hurricane  of  rec- 
ollections arose  in  his  distracted  soul. 

"  Shall  we  leave  the  lamp  lit  ?  "  he  asked,  without  think- 
ing of  what  he  was  saying. 

And  his  own  voice  gave  him  an  indefinable  sensation  as 
of  some  distant  and  strange  thing. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Hippolyte. 

They  went  down. 

On  the  staircase  they  took  each  other  by  the  hand, 
slowly  descending  step  by  step.  George  made  so  violent 
an  effort  to  repress  his  anguish  that  the  effort  caused  in  him 
a  strange  exaltation.  He  considered  the  immensity  of  the 


4o&  THE  TRIUMPH  OF  D&ATH. 

nocturnal  sky,  and  believed  it  to  be  filled  by  the  intensity 
of  his  own  life. 

They  perceived  on  the  parapet  of  the  courtyard  the  shadow 
of  a  man,  motionless  and  silent.  They  recognized  old 
Colas. 

"You  here  at  this  hour,  Colas?"  said  Hippolyte. 
"  Are  you  not  sleepy  ?  " 

"  I  am  keeping  vigil  for  Candia,  who  is  in  childbirth," 
responded  the  old  man. 

"  And  is  everything  going  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very  well." 

The  door  of  the  habitation  was  lit  up. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Hippolyte.  "I  want  to  see 
Candia." 

"No,  do  not  go  there  now,"  begged  George.  "You 
will  see  her  on  your  return." 

"That  is  so;  I  will  see  her  on  my  return.  Good-by, 
Colas." 

She  stumbled  as  she  entered  the  path. 

"  Take  care,"  cautioned  the  shadow  of  the  old  man. 

George  offered  her  his  arm. 

"  Do  you  want  to  lean  on  me  ?  " 

She  took  George's  arm. 

They  walked  several  steps  in  silence. 

The  night  was  bright,  glorious  in  all  directions.  The 
Great  Bear  shone  on  their  heads  in  all  its  sextuple  mystery. 
Silent  and  pure  as  the  heaven  above,  the  Adriatic  gave  as 
the  only  indication  of  its  existence  its  respiration  and  its 
perfume. 

"  Why  do  you  hurry  so  ?  "  asked  Hippolyte. 

George  slowed  down  his  step.  Dominated  by  a  single 
thought,  pursued  by  the  necessity  of  the  act,  he  had  only 
a  confused  consciousness  for  everything  else.  His  inner 


THE   INVINCIBLE.  469 

life  seemed  to  disintegrate,  to  decompose,  to  dissolve  in 
a  heavy  fermentation  that  invaded  even  the  deepest  depths 
of  his  being,  and  brought  to  the  surface  shapeless  fragments, 
of  diverse  nature,  as  little  recognizable  as  if  they  had  not 
belonged  to  the  life  of  the  same  man. 

All  these  strange,  inextricable,  abrupt,  violent  things 
he  vaguely  perceived,  as  if  in  a  half-slumber,  while  at  the 
same  time  one  single  point  in  his  brain  retained  an  extra- 
ordinary lucidity,  and,  in  a  rigid  line,  guided  him  toward 
the  fatal  act. 

"  How  melancholy  the  sound  of  the  flax  brake  in  that 
field  is,"  said  Hippolyte,  stopping.  "All  night  long 
they  beat  the  flax.  Does  that  not  make  you  feel  melan- 
choly ?" 

She  abandoned  herself  on  George's  arm,  brushed  his 
cheek  with  her  tresses. 

f'  Do  you  recall,  at  Albano,  the  pavers  who  were  beating 
the  pavement  from  morning  to  night  beneath  our  win- 
dow ?" 

Her  voice  was  veiled  with  sadness,  somewhat  tired. 

"  We  became  accustomed  to  that  noise." 

She  stopped,  restless. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  turning  around  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  hear  a  man  walking  barefoot," 
responded  George  in  a  low  voice.  "  Let  us  stop." 

They  stopped,  listened. 

George  was  under  the  empire  of  the  same  horror  that  had 
frozen  him  in  front  of  the  door  of  the  funereal  chamber.  All 
his  being  trembled,  fascinated  by  the  mystery ;  he  seemed 
to  have  already  crossed  the  confines  of  an  unknown  world. 

"  It  is  Giardino,"  said  Hippolyte,  on  perceiving  the  dog, 
which  approached.  "  He  has  followed  us." 

And,  several  times,  she  called  the  faithful  animal,  which 


410  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

came  running  up  friskily.  She  bent  down  to  caress  him, 
spoke  to  him  in  the  special  tone  she  habitually  used  when 
she  petted  animals  she  was  fond  of. 

"  You  never  leave  your  friend,  do  you  ?  You  never 
leave  her  ?  ' ' 

The  grateful  animal  rolled  in  the  dust. 

George  made  a  few  steps.  He  felt  a  great  relief  6n  feel- 
ing himself  free  from  Hippolyte's  arm;  up  to  now,  this 
contact  had  given  him  an  indefinable  physical  uneasiness. 
He  imagined  the  sudden  and  violent  act  he  was  about  to 
accomplish ;  he  imagined  the  mortal  embrace  of  his  arms 
around  the  body  of  this  woman,  and  he  would  have  liked 
to  touch  her  only  at  the  supreme  instant. 

"Come,  come;  we'll  soon  be  there,"  he  said,  preced- 
ing her  in  the  direction  of  the  olive-trees,  whitened  by  the 
moonlight  and  stars. 

He  halted  on  the  edge  of  the  plateau,  and  turned  around 
to  assure  himself  that  she  was  following  him.  Once  more 
he  gazed  around  him  distractedly,  as  if  to  embrace  the 
image  of  the  night.  It  seemed  to  him  that,  on  this  pla- 
teau, the  silence  had  become  more  profound.  Only  the 
rhythmic  beats  of  the  flax  brake  could  be  heard  from  the 
distant  fields. 

"  Come  !  "  he  repeated  in  a  clear  voice,  strengthened  by 
a  sudden  energy. 

And,  passing  between  the  twisted  trunks,  feeling  beneath 
his  feet  the  softness  of  the  grass,  he  directed  his  steps  towards 
the  edge  of  the  precipice. 

This  edge  formed  a  circular  projection,  entirely  free  in 
every  direction,  without  any  kind  of  railing.  George  pressed 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  bent  his  body  forward  on  this  support, 
and  advanced  his  head  cautiously.  He  examined  the  rocks 
below  him ;  he  saw  a  corner  of  the  sandy  beach.  The  little 


THE  INVINCIBLE.  411 

corpse  stretched  out  on  the  sand  reappeared  to  him. 
There  appeared  to  him  also  the  blackish  spot  he  had  seen 
with  Hippolyte  from  the  heights  of  the  Pincio,  at  the 
foot  of  the  wall ;  and  he  heard  again  the  answers  of  the 
teamster  to  the  greenish-looking  man;  and,  confusedly, 
all  the  phantoms  of  that  distant  afternoon  repassed  before 
his  soul. 

"  Take  care  !  "  cried  Hippolyte,  as  she  came  up  to  him. 
"Take  care!" 

The  dog  barked  among  the  olive-trees. 

"  Do  you  hear  me,  George  ?     Come  away  !  " 

The  promontory  fell  perpendicularly  down  to  the  black 
and  deserted  rocks,  around  which  the  water  scarcely  moved, 
splashing  feebly,  rocking  in  its  slow  undulations  the  reflec- 
tions of  the  stars. 

"George!     George!" 

"  Have  no  fear  !  "  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "  Come 
nearer  !  Come  !  Come  and  see  the  fishermen,  fishing  by 
torchlight  among  the  rocks." 

"  No,  no  !     I  am  afraid  of  vertigo." 

"Come!     I  will  hold  you." 

"No,  no." 

She  seemed  frozen  by  the  unusual  tone  in  George's 
voice,  and  a  vague  fright  commenced  to  invade  her. 

"Come!" 

And  he  approached  her,  his  hands  extended.  Suddenly 
he  seized  her  wrists,  dragged  her  several  steps ;  then  he 
seized  her  in  his  arms,  made  a  bound,  and  attempted  to 
force  her  towards  the  abyss. 

"No!  no!  no!" 

She  resisted  with  furious  energy. 

She  succeeded  in  disengaging  herself,  jumped  back, 
panting  and  trembling. 


412  THE    TRIUMPH    OF    DEATH. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  she  cried,  choked  by  anger.  "  Are 
you  mad  ?  ' ' 

But  when  she  saw  him  come  after  her  without  speaking  a 
word,  when  she  felt  herself  seized  with  more  brutal  vio- 
lence and  dragged  again  toward  the  precipice,  she  under- 
stood all,  and  a  great,  sinister  flash  of  light  struck  terror  to 
her  soul. 

"  No,  George,  no  !  Let  me  be  !  Let  me  be  !  Only 
one  minute  !  Listen  !  Listen  !  One  minute  !  I  want  to 
tell  you " 

Insane  with  terror,  she  supplicated  him,  writhing.  She 
hoped  to  stop  him,  to  move  him  to  pity. 

"  One  minute  !  Listen  !  I  love  you  !  Forgive  me  ! 
Forgive  me  !  " 

She  stammered  incoherent  words  desperately,  feeling  her- 
self becoming  weaker,  losing  her  ground,  seeing  death 
before  her. 

"  Assassin  !  "  she  then  shrieked,  furious. 

And  she  defended  herself  with  her  nails,  with  her  teeth, 
like  a  beast. 

"  Assassin  !  "  she  shrieked,  as  she  was  seized  by  the  hair, 
thrown  to  the  ground  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice,  lost. 

The  dog  barked  at  the  tragic  group. 

It  was  a  brief  and  fierce  struggle,  like  the  sudden  outburst 
of  supreme  hate  which,  up  to  then,  had  been  smouldering, 
unsuspected,  in  the  hearts  of  implacable  enemies. 

And  they  both  crashed  down  to  death,  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms. 


VIRGINIA  OF  ELK  CREEK 


{By  <Z%Cary  <?//en  Chase 


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A  sequel  to  last  year's  success,  THE  GIRL  FROM 
THE  BIG  HORN  COUNTRY  (sixth  printing).  This 
new  story  is  more  western  in  flavor  than  the  first  book 
— -since  practically  all  of  the  action  occurs  back  in 
the  Big  Horn  country,  at  Virginia's  home,  to  which 
she  invites  her  eastern  friends  for  a  summer  vacation. 
The  vacation  in  the  West  proves  "  the  best  ever "  for 
the  Easterners,  and  in  recounting  their  pleasures  they 
tell  of  the  hundreds  of  miles  of  horseback  riding,  how 
they  climbed  mountains,  trapped  a  bear,  shot  gophers, 
fished,  camped,  homesteaded,  and  of  the  delightful  hospi- 
tality of  Virginia  and  her  friends. 

"The  story  is  full  of  life  and  movement  and  presents 
a  variety  of  interesting  characters."  —  St .  Paul  Despatch. 

"  This  is  most  gladsome  reading  to  all  who  love  health- 
fulness  of  mind,  heart  and  body."  —  Boston  Idea*. 


A  PLACE  IN  THE  SUN 


.  Henry 


Author   of  "The   Career  of  Dr.    Weaver,"   "The  Rose 
of  Roses,"  etc. 


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Gunda  Karoli  is  a  very  much  alive  young  person  with 
a  zest  for  life  and  looking-forward  philosophy  which 
helps  her  through  every  trial.  She  is  sustained  in  her 
struggles  against  the  disadvantage  of  her  birth  by  a 
burning  faith  in  the  great  American  ideal  —  that  here 
in  the  United  States  every  one  has  a  chance  to  win  for 
himself  a  place  in  the  sun. 

Gunda  takes  for  her  gospel  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence, only  to  find  that,  although  this  democratic 
doctrine  is  embodied  in  the  constitution  of  the  country, 
it  does  not  manifest  itself  outwardly  in  its  social  life. 
Nevertheless,  she  succeeds  in  mounting  step  by  step  in 
the  social  scale,  from  the  tune  she  first  appears  at  Sky- 
land  on  the  Knobs  as  a  near-governess,  to  her  brief 
season  in  the  metropolis  as  a  danseuse. 

How  she  wins  the  interest  of  Justin  Arnold,  the  fas- 
tidious descendant  of  a  fine  old  family,  and  brings  into 
his  self-centered  existence  a  new  life  and  fresh  charm, 
provides  a  double  interest  to  the  plot. 


Selections  from 

The  Page  Company's 

List  of  Fiction 

WORKS  OF 

ELEANOR  H.  PORTER 
POLLYANNA:  The  GLAD  Book     (360,000) 

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the  Philadelphia  North  American,  says:  "And  when,  after  Polly- 
anna  has  gone  away,  you  get  her  letter  saying  she  is  going  to 
take  'eight  steps'  to-morrow  —  well,  I  don't  know  just  what 
you  may  do,  but  I  know  of  one  person  who  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  shook  with  the  gladdest  sort  of  sadness  and 
got  down  on  his  knees  and  thanked  the  Giver  of  all  gladness 
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POLLYANNA  GROWS  UP:  The  Second  GLAD  Book 

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up  all  over  the  country  —  and  other  countries,  too.  Now 
POLLYANNA  appears  again,  just  as  sweet  and  joyous-hearted, 
more  grown  up  and  more  lovable. 

"Take  away  frowns!  Put  down  the  worries!  Stop  fidgeting 
and  disagreeing  and  grumbling!  Cheer  up,  everybody!  POLLY- 
ANNA  has  come  back!" — Christian  Herald. 


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THE  POLLYANNA  CALENDAR 

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THE  PAGE  COMPANY'S 


WORKS  OF  ELEANOR  H.  PORTER  (Continued) 

MISS  BILLY  (18th  printing) 

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demand  the  individual  attention  of  the  reader  from  the  moment 

we  open  the  book  until  we  reluctantly  turn  the  last  page." — 

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as  much  gladness.  She  disseminates  joy  so  naturally  that  we 
wonder  why  all  girls  are  not  like  her." —  Boston  Transcript. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH  (19th  Printing) 

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anna  Philosophy'  with  irresistible  success.  The  book  is  one  of 
the  kindliest  things,  if  not  the  best,  that  the  author  of  the  Polly- 
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THE  TURN   OF  THE  TIDE 

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LIST  OF  FICTION 3 

WORKS  OF 

L.  M.  MONTGOMERY 

THE  FOUR  ANNE  BOOKS 
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ANNE   OF  THE  ISLAND  (10th  printing) 

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ANNE  OF  THE  BLOSSOM  SHOP:  Or, The  Growing 

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ANNE'S  WEDDING 

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DAISY  RHODES  CAMPBELL 

THE  FIDDLING  GIRL 

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THE  PROVING  OF  VIRGINIA 

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THE  VIOLIN  LADY 

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will  be  shared  by  many  others." —  Boston  Transcript. 


LIST  OF  FICTION  5 

NOVELS  BY 
OTHER  AUTHORS 
THE  GIRL  FROM  THE  BIG  HORN  COUNTRY 

By  MARY  ELLEN  CHASE. 

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Hunter,  a  bright,  breezy,  frank-hearted  'girl  of  the  Golden  West' 
comes  out  of  the  Big  Horn  country  of  Wyoming  to  the  old  Bay 
State.  Then  things  begin,  when  Virginia  —  who  feels  the 
joyous,  exhilarating  call  of  the  Big  Horn  wilderness  and  the 
outdoor  life  —  attempts  to  become  acclimated  and  adopt  good 
old  New  England  'ways.'  " —  Critic. 

"The  story  is  full  of  life  and  movement  and  presents  a  variety 
of  interesting  characters." —  St.  Paul  Despatch. 

THE  ROAD    TO   LE  REVE 

By  BREWER  CORCORAN. 

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"This  is,  first  of  all,  a  charming  romance,  distinguished  by  a 
fine  sentiment  of  loyalty  to  an  ideal,  by  physical  courage,  in- 
domitable resolution  to  carry  to  success  an  altruistic  undertak- 
ing, a  splendid  woman's  devotion,  and  by  a  vein  of  spontaneous 
sparkling  humor  that  offsets  its  more  serious  phases." —  Spring- 
field Republican. 

"A  romance  of  vivid  interest,  a  love  story  full  of  youth,  the 
great  outdoors  and  adventures  that  thrill.  The  dialogue  is 
unusually  clever,  the  characters  delightfully  real,  the  plot  one 
that  holds  the  reader's  interest  to  the  end." — New  York  Sun. 

MAN  PROPOSES;  Or,  The  Romance  of  John 
t  Alden  Shaw. 

By  ELIOT  ROBINSON. 

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but  one  of  the  most  complicated  romances  ever  dreamed  of. 
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picture  of  high  social  life  in  Newport,  where  many  of  the  inci- 
dents of  the  plot  are  staged  in  the  major  part  of  the  book." — 
The  Bookman. 

"The  author  has  given  the  public  a  novel  decidedly  off  the 
ordinary.  The  book  is  more  than  a  tale  for  an  idle  hour  — it 
stimulates  the  mind,  induces  thought  and  at  the  same  time 
beguiles  the  reader  and  fascinates  him  by  the  peculiar  interest 
of  the  story." —  Gateway  Gazette. 


THE  PAGE  COMPANY'S 


NOVELS  BY 

MRS.  HENRY  BACKUS 

THE  CAREER  OF  DOCTOR  WEAVER 

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in  real  palpitant  human  interest.  The  most  startling  feature 
of  the  story  is  the  way  its  author  has  torn  aside  the  curtain 
and  revealed  certain  phases  of  the  relation  between  the  medical 
profession  and  society." — Dr.  Charles  Reed  in  the  Lancet  Clinic. 

THE  ROSE   OF  ROSES 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color. 

Net,  $1.35;  carriage  paid,  $1.50 

The  author  has  achieved  a  thing  unusual  in  developing  a 
love  story  which  adheres  to  conventions  under  unconventional 
circumstances. 

"Mrs.  Backus'  novel  is  distinguished  in  the  first  place  for 
its  workmanship." —  Buffalo  Evening  News. 

NOVELS  BY 

MARGARET  R.  PIPER 
SYLVIA'S  EXPERIMENT:  The  Cheerful  Book 

Trade —  ""Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color  from  a 
painting  by  Z.  P.  Nikolaki.    Net,  $1.35;  carriage  paid,  $1.50 
"An  atmosphere  of  good  spirits  pervades  the  book;  the  hu- 
mor that  now  and  then  flashes  across  the  page  is  entirely  natural, 
and  the  characters  are  well  individualized." —  Boston  Post. 

SYLVIA  OF  THE  HILL  TOP:  The  Second  Cheerful 
Book  Trade Mark 

Cloth  decorative,  with  a  frontispiece  in  full  color,  from  a 
painting  by  Gene  Pressler.    Net,  $1.35;  carriage  paid,  $1.50 
"There  is  a  world  of  human  nature  and  neighborhood  content- 
ment and  quaint  quiet  humor  in  Margaret  R.  Piper's  second 
book  of  good  cheer." —  Philadelphia  North  American. 

MISS  MADELYN   MACK,  DETECTIVE 
By  HUGH  C.  WEIR. 

Cloth  decorative,  illustrated.    Net,  $1.35;  carriage  paid,  $1.50 
"Clever  in  plot  and  effective  in  style,  the  author  has  seized 

on  some  of  the  most  sensational  features  of  modern  life,  and 

the  result  is  a  detective  novel  that  gets  away  from  the  beaten 

track  of  mystery  stories." —  New  York  Sun. 


LIST  Off  FICTION 


WORKS  OF 

CHARLES  G.  D.  ROBERTS 
HAUNTERS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

Cloth  decorative,  with  many  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull,  four  of  which  are  in  full  color    ....    $2.00 
The  stories  in  Mr.  Roberta's  new  collection  are  the  strongest 
and  best  he  has  ever  written. 

He  has  largely  taken  for  his  subjects  those  animals  rarely 
met  with  in  books,  whose  lives  are  spent  "In  the  Silences," 
where  they  are  the  supreme  rulers. 

"As  a  writer  about  animals,  Mr.  Roberts  occupies  an  envi- 
able place.  He  is  the  most  literary,  as  well  as  the  most  imag- 
inative and  vivid  of  all  the  nature  writers,"— Brooklyn  Eagle. 

RED  FOX 

THE  STORY  OF  His  ADVENTTTHOTTS  CABEER  IN  THE  RINGWAAK 
WILDS,  AND  OF  His  FINAL  TRIUMPH  OVER  THE  EKEMIES  OF 
His  KIKD.  With  fifty  illustrations,  including  frontispiece  in 
color  and  cover  design  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative $2.00 

"True  in  substance  but  fascinating  as  fiction.  It  will  inter- 
est old  and  young,  city-bound  and  free-footed,  those  who  know 
animals  and  those  who  do  not." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

THE  KINDRED  OF  THE  WILD 

A  BOOK  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE.  With  fifty-one  full-page  plates 
and  many  decorations  from  drawings  by  Charles  Livingston 
Bull. 

Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative $2.00 

"  Is  in  many  ways  the  most  brilliant  collection  of  animal 

stories  that  has  appeared;  well  named  and  well  done." — John 

Burroughs. 

THE  WATCHERS  OF  THE  TRAILS 

A  companion  volume  to  "  The  Kindred  of  the  Wild."  With 
forty-eight  full-page  plates  and  many  decorations  from 
drawings  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Square  quarto,  cloth  decorative $2.0<* 

"  These  stories  are  exquisite  in  their  refinement,  and  yet  ro- 
bust in  their  appreciation  of  some  of  the  rougher  phases  of 
woodcraft.  Among  the  many  writers  about  animals,  Mr.  Rob- 
erts occupies  an  enviable  place,"— The  Outlook. 


g  THE   PAGE   COMPANY'S 

THE  HOUSE  IN  THE  WATER 

With  thirty  full-page  illustrations  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull 
and  Frank  Vining  Smith.  Cover  design  and  decorations  by 
Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative  .....     $1.50 
"  Every  paragraph  is  a  splendid  picture,  suggesting  in  a  few- 
words   the   appeal   of   the   vast,   illimitable  wilderness." — Th0 
Chicago  Tribune. 

"This  is  a  book  full  of  delight.  An  additional  charm  lies  in 
Mr.  Bull's  faithful  and  graphic  illustrations,  which  in  fashion 
all  their  own  tell  the  story  of  the  wild  life,  illuminating  and 
supplementing  the  pen  pictures  of  the  author." — Literaryt 
Digest. 

THE  HEART  THAT  KNOWS 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative  .         .         .         .         .     $1.50 
"  A  novel  of  singularly  effective  strength,  luminous  in  liter- 
ary color,  rich  in  its  passionate,  yet  tender  drama." — New  York 
Globe. 

EARTH'S  ENIGMAS 

A  new  edition  of  Mr.  Roberts's  first  volume  of  fiction,  pub- 
lished in  1892,  and  out  of  print  for  several  years,  with  the 
addition  of  three  new  stories,  and  ten  illustrations  by  Charles 
Livingston  Bull. 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative  .         .  .         .     $1.50 

"  It  will  rank  high  among  collections  of  short  stories.  In 
4  Earth's  Enigmas  '  is  a  wider  range  of  subjects  than  in  the 
*  Kindred  of  the  Wild.' " — Review  from  advance  sheets  of  the 
illustrated  edition  by  Tiffany  Blake  in  the  Chicago  Evening 
Post. 

BARBARA  LADD 

With  four  illustrations  by  Frank  Verbeck. 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative $1.50 

"  From  the  opening  chapter  to  the  final  page  Mr.  Roberts 
lures  us  on  by  his  rapt  devotion  to  the  changing  aspects  of 
Nature  and  by  his  keen  and  sympathetic  analysis  of  human 
character." — Boston  Transcript. 

"A  very  fine  novel.  We  unhesitatingly  pronounce  it  ... 
one  of  the  books  that  stamp  themselves  at  once  upon  the  imag- 
ination, and  remain  imbedded  in  the  memory  long  after  the 
covers  are  closed." — Literary  World,  Boston. 


LIST  OF   FICTION 


THE  PRISONER  OF  MADEMOISELLE 

With  frontispiece  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative      .        .        .        .        .    $1.50 

A  tale  of  Acadia, — a  land  which  is  the  author's  heart's  de- 
light,— of  a  valiant  young  lieutenant  and  a  winsome  maiden, 
who  first  captures  and  then  captivates. 

"This  is  the  kind  of  a  story  that  makes  one  grow  younger, 
more  innocent,  more  light-hearted.  Its  literary  quality  is  im- 
peccable. It  is  not  every  day  that  such  a  heroine  blossoms  into 
even  temporary  existence,  and  the  very  name  of  the  story  bearg 
a  breath  of  charm." — Chicago  Record-Herald. 


THE    HEART    OF    THE    ANCIENT    WOOD 

With  six  illustrations  by  James  L.  Weston. 

Library  12mo,  decorative  cover       .....      $1.50 

"  One  of  the  most  fascinating  novels  of  recent  days."  —  Boston 
Journal. 

"  A  classic  twentieth-century  romance."  —  New  York  Commer- 
cial Advertiser. 

THE    FORGE    IN    THE   FOREST 

Being  the  Narrative  of  the  Acadian  Ranger,  Jean  de  Mer, 
Seigneur  de  Briart,  and  how  he  crossed  the  Black  Abb  6,  and 
of  his  adventures  in  a  strange  fellowship.  Illustrated  by  Henry 
Sandham,  R.  C.  A. 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative  .  .  »  .  .  $1.50 
A  story  of  pure  love  and  heroic  adventure. 

BY   THE   MARSHES   OF   IOTAS 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated  .  .  $1.50 
Most  of  these  romances  are  in  the  author's  lighter  and  more 

playful  vein;  each  is  a  unit  of  absorbing  interest  and  exquisite 

•workmanship. 

A   SISTER    TO   EVANGELINE 

Being  the  Story  of  Yvonne  de  Lamourie,  and  how  she  went  into 
exile  with  the  villagers  of  Grand  Pr6. 

Library  12mo,  cloth  decorative,  illustrated    .       .       .      $1.50 
Swift  action,  fresh  atmosphere,  wholesome  purity,  deep  pas- 
sion, and  snarehing  analysis  characterize  this  strong  novel. 


THE  PAGE   COMPANY'S 


WORKS  OF 

GABRIELE  D'ANNUNZIO 

Signer  d'Annunzio  is  known  throughout  the  world  aa  a  poet 
and  a  dramatist,  but  above  all  as  a  novelist,  for  it  is  in  his  novels 
that  he  is  at  his  best.  In  poetic  thought  and  graceful  expression 
he  has  few  equals  among  the  writers  of  the  day. 

He  is  engaged  on  a  most  ambitious  work  —  nothing  less  than 
the  writing  of  nine  novels  which  cover  the  whole  field  of  human 
sentiment.  This  work  he  has  divided  into  three  trilogies,  and 
five  of  the  nine  books  have  been  published.  It  is  to  be  regretted 
that  other  labors  have  interrupted  the  completion  of  the  series. 

"  This  book  is  realistic.  Some  say  that  it  is  brutally  so. 
But  the  realism  is  that  of  Flaubert,  and  not  of  Zola.  There 
is  no  plain  speaking  for  the  sake  of  plain  speaking.  Every 
detail  is  justified  in  the  fact  that  it  illuminates  either  the  motives 
or  the  actions  of  the  man  and  woman  who  here  stand  revealed. 
It  is  deadly  true.  The  author  holds  the  mirror  up  to  nature, 
and  the  reader,  as  he  sees  his  own  experiences  duplicated  in 
passage  after  passage,  has  something  of  the  same  sensation  as 
all  of  us  know  on  the  first  reading  of  George  Meredith's  '  Ego- 
ist.' Reading  these  pages  is  like  being  out  in  the  country  on 
a  dark  night  in  a  storm.  Suddenly  a  flash  of  lightning  comes 
and  every  detail  of  your  surroundings  is  revealed."  —  Review 
of  "  The  Triumph  of  Death  "  in  the  New  York  Evening  Sun. 

The  volumes  published  are  as  follows.  Each  1  vol.,  library 
12mo,  cloth  ..........  $1.50 

Jl 
THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  ROSE 

THE   CHILD   OF  PLEASURE  (!L  PIACEBB). 

THE   INTRUDER  (L'INNOCENTE). 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF    DEATH    (!L    TBIOOTO    DIUXA 

MOBTE). 

Jl 
THE   ROMANCES   OF   THE  LILY 

THE  MAIDENS    OF    THE  ROCKS    (L»    VHJHUNI 

DELLE   ROCCE). 

Jl 

THE  ROMANCES  OF  THE  POMEQRANATB 
THE  FLAME  OF  LIFE  Ob  Pnoco). 


LIST  OF  FICTION' 


WORKS  OF 

ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS 

Each  one  volume,  library  I2mo,  cloth  decorative     .       .     $1.50 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  GEORGIANA 

1    A  ROMANCE  OP  THE  DAYS  OP  THE  YOUNG  PRETENDER.   Illus- 

trated by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

"  A  love-story  in  the  highest  degree,  a  dashing  story,  and  a 
remarkably  well  finished  piece  of  work."  —  Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 

THE  BRIGHT  FACE  OF  DANGER 

Being  an  account  of  some  adventures  of  Henri  de  Launay,  son 
of  the  Sieur  de  la  Tournoire.  Illustrated  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 
"  Mr.  Stephens  has  fairly  outdone  himself.  We  thank  him 

heartily.    The  story  is  nothing  if  not  spirited  and  entertaining, 

rational  and  convincing."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

THE  MYSTERY  OF  MURRAY  DAVENPORT 

(40th  thousand.) 

"  This  is  easily  the  best  thing  that  Mr.  Stephens  has  yet  done. 
Those  familiar  with  his  other  novels  can  best  judge  the  measure 
of  this  praise,  which  is  generous."  —  Buffalo  News. 

CAPTAIN  RAVENSHAW 

OR,  THE  MAID  OP  CHEAPSIDE.    (52d  thousand.)    A  romance 

of  Elizabethan  London.     Illustrations  by  Howard  Pyle  and 

other  artists. 

Not  since  the  absorbing  adventures  of  D'Artagnan  have  we 
had  anything  so  good  in  the  blended  vein  of  romance  and  comedy. 

"  The  story  proceeds  with  a  rapidity  which  holds  the  attention 
of  the  reader  from  the  start  to  the  finish.  The  characters  are 
well  portrayed  with  a  vividness  only  found  in  this  well-known 
author."  —  The  Waterbury  Democrat. 

"  It  is  a  work  of  fiction  well  worth  reading,  and  once  read  it  is 
not  easily  forgotten."  —  Common  Sense  Magazine,  Chicago. 

THE  CONTINENTAL  DRAGOON 

A  ROMANCE  OP  PHILIPSE  MANOR  HOUSE  IN  1778.     (53d 

thousand.)    Illustrated,  by  H.  C.  Edwards. 

A  stirring  romance  of  the  Revolution,  with  its  scenes  laid  on 
neutral  territory. 

"  One  of  the  most  delightful  stories  we  have  bad  for  many  a 
day."  —  Chicago  Record-Herald* 


]9  THE    PAGE   COMPANY'S 

PHILIP  WINWOOD 

(70th  thousand.)  A  Sketch  of  the  Domestic  History  of  an 
American  Captain  in  the  War  of  Independence,  embracing 
events  that  occurred  between  and  during  the  years  1763  and 
1785  in  New  York  and  London.  Illustrated  by  E.  W.  D. 
Hamilton. 

AN  ENEMY  TO  THE  KING 

(70th  thousand.)    Illustrated  by  H.  De  M.  Young. 

An  historical  romance  of  the  sixteenth  century,  describing  the 
adventures  of  a  young  French  nobleman  at  the  court  of  Henry 
III.,  and  on  the  field  with  Henry  IV. 

THE  ROAD  TO  PARIS 

A  STORY  OP  ADVENTURE.  (35th  thousand.)  Illustrated  by 
H.  C.  Edwards. 

An  historical  romance  of  the  eighteenth  century,  being  an 
account  of  the  life  of  an  American  gentleman  adventurer. 

A  GENTLEMAN  PLAYER 

His  ADVENTURES  ON  A  SECRET  MISSION  FOR  QUEEN  ELIZA- 
BETH.    (48th  thousand.)     Illustrated  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 
The  story  of  a  young  gentleman  who  joins  Shakespeare's 
company  of  players,  and  becomes  a  prot6g6  of  the  great  poet. 

CLEMENTINA'S  HIGHWAYMAN 

Illustrated  by  A.  Everhart. 

The  story  is  laid  in  the  mid-Georgian  period.  It  ia  a  dashing, 
sparkling,  vivacious  comedy. 

TALES  FROM  BOHEMIA 

Illustrated  by  Wallace  Goldsmith.  ^ 

These  bright  and  clever  tales  deal  with  people  of  the  theatre  and 
odd  characters  in  other  walks  of  life  which  fringe  on  Bohemia. 

A  SOLDIER  OF  VALLEY  FORGE 

By  ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS  AND  THEODORE  GOODRIDGE 
ROBERTS. 

With  frontispiece  by  Frank  T.  Merrill. 

"  The  plot  shows  invention  and  is  developed  with  originality, 
and  there  is  incident  in  abundance."  —  Brooklyn  Times. 

THE  SWORD  OF  BUSSY 

By  ROBERT  NEILSON  STEPHENS  AND  HERMAN  NICKERSON. 

With  frontispiece  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett. 

Net,  $1.25;  carnage  paid,  $1.40 

"The  plot  is  lively,  dashing  and  fascinating,  the  very  kind 
of  a  Btory  that  one  does  not  want  to  stop  reading  until  it  ia 
finished."  —  Boston  Herald. 


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